


In Death, Standby

by Sophisme



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Civil War, Dark, Gore, Growing Up, M/M, Not Beta Read, Occasional Shameless Fluff, Prejudices and Bias, Voldemort Raises Harry, Work In Progress, strange humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 93,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophisme/pseuds/Sophisme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the infamous massacre of the Potters, young Harry Potter went missing. It doesn't really help that years later he turns up again, a bit darker, stranger and more erratic than anyone had hoped for. But Harry hardly cares, since in the end it's his decision on which side he will fight; Dark, Light or no side at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wayward Child and Scheaming Old Men

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [W śmierci, wierny](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330330) by [AugustPyro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustPyro/pseuds/AugustPyro)



> Transferred this over from FF.net. Extra warning for irregular updates and awfully long chapters. This work may or may not ever be complete. Lastly, I apologize for my dreadful grammar and spelling and poor proof-reading skills.

For the better part of his bizarre early childhood Harry believed himself to be a snake. A rather dreadfully deformed snake, true, but a snake nonetheless.

This theory was supported by small everyday things that marked Harry's small and insignificant life. He was mostly raised by a snake and he lived amongst the other snakes of the Manor. He spoke in the tongue of snakes, sang in those soft syllables that rolled easily off his tongue like honey. Warm spots near fires and human bodies attracted him like a magical garden attracted gnomes. Harry even _felt_ like a snake most of the time and the rest of the time he was called Little Snakeling.

Later, when Harry looked back to this childish belief and his years as a snake, he could never quite pinpoint the exact moment when the seed of doubt—the hesitant, horrifying doubt that he might be a human, after all—was planted into his mind. It had been a long and arduous process, a string of small incidents that shook his faith and his deeply rooted denial.

The earliest of those events that Harry could still recall was the time when the man with red eyes had told him to walk. The request—which hadn’t really been a request at all since the man with red eyes never _asked_ for anything, but Harry hadn't yet known it back then—had come as a surprise since Harry hadn't really known that he _could_ walk. They had had a very short but heated glaring contest over the matter until the man with red eyes had snapped, pulled out his wand and given Harry the ultimatum; he would either walk or he would cry and walk. In the end Harry _had_ cried, quite wretchedly and definitely whole-heartedly until small teary rivers had run down his dirty face, but he had also _walked,_ which had been a huge blow to his belief of his snakeish nature, at the time.

Another time Harry had failed to dislocate his jaw and had very nearly choked on a blackbird he had dried to swallow whole. The man with the red eyes had been absolutely livid after that and had firmly forbidden Harry from eating anything he hadn't approved first. The curse Harry had been dealt as a punishment paled in comparison to the discomfort of coughing up feathers all week.

Harry had happily babbled in the tongue of snakes, until the man with red eyes had forced him to learn another much cruder and harsher language, an ugly _human_ language, which the man with red eyes called English. Harry used this _English_ willingly only when he was angry and cursed at the man with red eyes with words he didn't completely understand.

 

However, the last and most devastating blow against Harry's inner snake hit him on one beautiful autumn day when he was still quite young. Nagini, Harry's most trusted friend and protector, had been cranky for days, nearly weeks, when Harry finally gathered his courage to ask what was wrong. Nagini first complained about itching, scratching and nosy little hatchlings, but finally grudgingly explained that she was shedding her skin which was apparently very uncomfortable but also unavoidable. It was a confusing explanation, but any further questions Nagini hissed off rudely and told Harry to go entertain himself somewhere else.

Harry pondered carefully over what he had heard, turned the new information around in his childishly simple mind and came up with only one conclusion. As a snake, it was his job to do the same as Nagini did: he had to shed his skin. The first few days of his attempt he tried the same as he had witnessed Nagini doing. He rubbed himself against furniture, rocks, and corners of the walls, every suitably rough surface and a few not so suitable ones in hopes of getting his ghostly pale skin to peel off. It soon turned out to be useless. It hurt a little after a while and his skin turned pink and then angry red, but there were no signs of it getting any looser than it was before. When thinking it over again, Harry realised that it had to be because of his faulty scales. Whilst Nagini had beautiful, large and symmetrical scales covering her skin all over, Harry had no scales at all, just ugly even skin that was useless in every sense of the word. It was too soft, too smooth and way too colourless. And apparently way too tightly attached to his flesh, too.

The next evening Harry nicked a sharp table knife from the dinner table and hid it in his sleeve. The cold press of the metal against his wrist distracted him while he ate, but he didn't let it show, just slurped down his meal quietly and escaped from the dining hall as soon as he could. He ran through the familiar dusty halls until he was enclosed in the safety of his bedroom and crumpled into a heap on the floorboards. He laid there panting for a moment, trying to catch his breath and calm his nerves, before pulled the knife from his sleeve and stared at the glimmering blade anxiously.

With a deep breath to brace himself, he set to work.

The first cut hurt the worst.

Or perhaps it was the second?

Or maybe the ache was worst where Harry bit into his lower lip to keep from whimpering and the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. However, it was the first tear that escaped his eyes and dribbled down into the gaping wounds that made him cry out. It only got worse when Harry had enough single cuts crossing up and down his arms and legs, so that he could grip a shred of skin and _pull_. He had to stuff his small fist into his mouth to keep from screaming, but he managed it in the end.

And yet, all the caution was useless. Harry had barely gotten properly started and most of his skin was still tightly in place, when the man with red eyes already emerged from the shadows of the room just as silent and intimidating as always. Harry first suspected that he had failed to be quiet enough and that the man with red eyes had somehow managed to hear his quiet whimpers all the way across the Manor. But maybe that was not the entire truth. Such things as whining and crying had little to no effect on the man. It was more likely that he had caught the faint scent of blood and that the metallic tang had lured him through the halls to investigate.

Whatever it was, it didn’t really matter at this point anymore, for Harry knew the game was lost. The expression on the man's pale face predicted the Armageddon to rain on Harry the moment the man had composed himself enough to form proper words for incantations. Harry stared frozenly for a while, the man staring right back, before he slowly pulled the crimson coated knife from his flesh and set it carefully on the floor. He hid his stifled tears and fixed an expression as innocent as possible onto his face. Of course the man with red eyes didn't much care about innocence or guilt when he was in a _mood_ , but it was worth a try.

The man with red eyes crossed the room in a flash, grabbed a good handful of Harry's dark hair and _pulled_ , forcing the child to look up to him. Harry didn't let a whimper escape, only stared defiantly right back. The man with red eyes didn't like crying, whining, or complaining. Well, he rarely liked it when Harry opened his mouth at all, and being as deep in trouble as Harry already was, he wasn't about to egg the man's infamous temper on.

"What do you think you are doing, you foolish child?" the man with red eyes snarled, voice thick with ire. Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat, sniffed to clear his runny nose and wiped the tear tracks from his cheeks before forced himself to speak.

: _No_ _English,_ : he pleaded, : _Snake's tongue_.: Even the silky syllables of his own language seemed to hitch in his throat. Harry couldn't even imagine how the sharp and cruel sounds of English would squeeze the last breath out of his weary body. He wished that the man with red eyes would understand, even without an explanation.

Perhaps the man did, since after a barely audible sigh, the familiar hisses filled Harry's ears. : _Fine_ _. But you will explain this nonsense, nonetheless, no matter what language we use. **:**_

Harry nodded weakly and shifted closer, closing his hands around the man's black robes. It took him a few tries, but finally his explanation got articulate enough for the man with red eyes to catch on to the general gist of it. Then he asked a few more questions, all very difficult to answer and each answer making Harry feel more foolish, as he described his life as a snake. Somewhere along the rather long and complicated story the man with red eyes had started and then again ceased with his healing spells and just listened intently. Harry wished to tell him to continue with the spells because his arms and legs were still aching all over, but decided against it and just hurried through his explanation. When he had voiced all there was to be told, he quieted down and just waited for the man with red eyes to comment on it.

: _You_ _are not a snake, child_ ,: the man with red eyes told him and there was a strange undertone in the words, as if the man wasn’t quite sure whether he should be angry or amused, or perhaps something else altogether.

: _Wh_ _-What?_ : Harry asked quietly, his breath hitching.

: _I_ _cannot even fathom what made you believe you were a snake,_ : the man with red eyes muttered, more to himself than to Harry. : _Although_ _, this does explain certain things. I need to have a word with Nagini.:_

: _But_ _I. . ._ : Harry began, prepared to defend his status as a serpent, but the words melted on his tongue and refused to emerge. None of his explanations or excuses sounded right even in his mind. Now that he really thought about it; what did makehim believe that he was a snake? No snake could walk, run or skip like Harry did. There was no snake that could speak in human tongues like Harry could. Neither did snakes read like Harry was learning to do.

: _You_ _are stopping me from being a snake,_ : Harry realised and raised his wide accusing eyes towards the man he had always thought he could place his trust upon. : _You_ _make me walk on legs like a_ human _. You don't let me talk in snake tongue,_ my _tongue, anymore! You don't let me eat what I want, but make me eat at the table and use knives and forks! You make me sleep in a bed_ _and I can't bask by the fire all night. You're taking it all from me. You're forcing me to stop! Just how mean_ are you _?:_

A peculiar expression crossed the man's face, but it faded quickly as the man raised a hand and rubbed his eyes tiredly with his long, slender fingers.

: _Listen_ _to me, you brat. . . Harry. . . If you truly were a snake, I'd let you do whatever you believe it is snakes do day in and day out. You could eat all the blackbirds and pixies you wished and I’d let you sleep on the floor by the fire every night, but you are not a snake,:_ the man with red eyes said, as the crimson eyes bored into Harry in the most unsettling manner. : _And_ _I think you know that much already. Clinging to your foolish hopes will not turn you into a snake, no matter how much you wish it would.:_

Harry swallowed around a thick lump of despair in his throat and stared right back at those distressing red eyes before told quietly, : _But I’d be a really good snake. I promise.:_

A corner of the man's thin lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. : _If_ _that was you asking me to transfigure you into a snake, I am afraid that I will have to decline. You are much more valuable to me as a human.:_

: _But_ _I'll make a really awful human,_ : Harry tried one more time, but the man with red eyes just shook his head.

: _There_ _are too many appalling humans in this world. Useless and weak ones. Inferior ones that should not be allowed to live in the first place,:_ the man with red eyes explained. : _Trust me, I shall ensure that you will one day make an exceptionally good human being when compared to those pathetic creatures. Nothing of mine will be anything less than perfect and you will be no exception to the rule.:_

Harry slowly mulled this over and found the words surprisingly comforting. There was truth hidden in the words, after all, since anything and everything the man with red eyes did, he did precisely and perfectly. If he intended to make Harry into an exceptionally good human being, then he _would_ do it, no matter how terrible subject Harry would appear to be in the beginning.

Harry's fingers curled tighter around the black fabric of the robes, clinging to the man with red eyes nearly desperately, as he nodded his acceptance. : _Alright_ _then._ :

The man with red eyes offered a satisfied half-smirk before concentrated on his magic again. Harry watched how the tip of the wand run precise patterns over Harry's arms and legs, while pale and flawless skin grew over the wounds and slashes where Harry had managed to rip it off.

: _You're_ _really good at this_ ,: Harry complemented the man with red eyes and received back a small half-amused snort and a thank-you. Harry was quite sure he was being mocked, but didn't care because a more important thought rose into his mind.

: _Did_ _I come from an egg?_ : Harry asked curiously.

: _I_ _thought we established already that you are a human? So no, you didn't. Humans don't come from eggs_ ,: the man with red eyes sighed, annoyed again. He grabbed Harry's thin wrist and told him to spread his fingers, so that he could heal the rather shredded digits as well. Harry obeyed quietly, thinking about what he had just been told.

: _Then_ _why don't I have any parents? I read from a book that humans have parents because someone has to take care of the hatchlings. Human children are quite stupid, you see, so they can't take care of themselves,:_ Harry explained and felt quite proud for knowing so much. Then he paused, realising that now he was a human child himself, and wondered if he was stupid as well.

He didn't notice that the man with red eyes had paused, too, frozen in the middle of a spell and now stared down at Harry with a slight frown.

When Harry noticed the stare, he quickly shook his head in a reassuring manner.

: _It's_ _alright, I suppose, since I have you and Nagini,_ : the child told, not wanting to annoy the man with red eyes any further than he already had. And besides, Harry quite believed that the man with red eyes, and Nagini, too, could stop him from being stupid a hundred times better than any parents ever could.

: _You_ _don't have parents because I killed them_ ,: the man with red eyes said coldly and went back to patching Harry up with an unfazed look on his face. Harry, in his part, was quite startled by the admission and stared at the man with red eyes with wide emerald eyes.

: _Oh_ _,_ : Harry commented finally. : _Why_ _?_ :

: _Because_ _I wanted you,_ : the man with red eyes said simply and his wand flicked the final finishing touch on Harry's now healthy fingers.

: _Me_ _?_ : Harry asked and his eyes only grew wider.

: _Yes_ _. Preferably dead as well_ ,: the man with red eyes said. When the realization of what exactly the man meant dawned to Harry, he twitched nervously as if to pull away from the man. He didn't, though, just pulled back enough to take a good look at the man's serious face.

: _But_ _I'm alive,_ : Harry said hesitantly. He was a bit worried that if he pointed out the truth the man with red eyes would realise it as well and he would then kill Harry on the spot. After all, the man wanted Harry _preferably dead,_ which did sound rather alarming in Harry's humble opinion.

: _You refused to die,_ : the man with red eyes replied and tucked away his wand, before faced Harry's curious and slightly scared look with a unreadable stare of his own. The crimson eyes searched over Harry's face, before a hand rose and one long finger traced the strange lightning bolt shaped scar on Harry's forehead. Harry had had the scar as long as he could remember, but this was the first time that the man with red eyes had acknowledged its existence. Harry's peered upwards, trying to follow the finger tracing the scar.

: _I_ _cast the curse and it hit you right here,_ : the man with red eyes said. There was an almost absent look in his eyes, as if he was gazing through time into the night when it happened and recalled it all very clearly. : _But_ _you lived and the only sign proving that the curse had worked at all was this mark._ :

Suddenly sharpness was back in the red eyes and all their crushing attention concentrated onto Harry, staring him down. : _I_ _marked you as mine, and as long as this mark stays here, you belong to me. Do you understand?:_

Harry gulped but nodded, nonetheless.

: _I_ _understand.:_ And he did understand, perfectly.

The man with red eyes nodded, as well, indicating that he was satisfied with the answer, before stood up and pulled Harry along with him. Neither of them spoke again, since everything worth saying had already been said, but it was then and there that Harry realised that it didn't matter what _exactly_ he was. He was Harry and the man with red eyes could mould him with mere words into whatever he wanted Harry to be, be it a snake, a human or a flobberworm. And in all honesty, it was an arrangement Harry had absolutely nothing against.

"Good night," in the tongue of humans, was the last thing Harry whispered, before sleep claimed him that night. If the man with red eyes wanted Harry to be a human, then a human he would get. When Harry received a silent "sleep, child" right back, he knew that the man with red eyes knew it as well.

…o0o…

After Harry became human, everything started to seem much more logical. Suddenly the things he had hated doing before, such as using forks and knifes, bathing regularly or learning to read and write, were the most obvious things to do. The weird things he had read about began to make sense. The strange words the man with red eyes sometimes spoke to him became comprehensible. It was all so _clear_ , so terrifyingly and magnificently _human,_ that Harry could barely believe it. It beat being a snake by far, and after a few weeks of adjustment, Harry could only look back and wonder how he could have been so stupid.

The man with red eyes was obviously pleased with Harry's progress, since he slowly and a bit hesitantly started to tell Harry about _the_ _secrets_. Dangerous, but marvellous arts of magic, the man with red eyes said and looked at Harry just as intently as always, but his tone gained a new softer note, as if even the man with red eyes was left in awe with these secret things.

Of course Harry had known about magic since forever. He had seen spells cast before he could even talk and the library was flooded with books on the matter. The man with red eyes had told him about magic before, taught a few spells even, and talked about theories and different types of magic. But those were _nothing_ like the secrets things. Those were magic, too, but _different_ kind of magic. Something much more fascinating and much more delicate. Just speaking of them was exciting and scary at the same time.

When the man with red eyes talked about them, he used words such as _powerful, exceptional_ and _sacred_. When he got his most feverous, he spoke about _immortality and forbidden._ Harry learned new words like _legilimency_ _, necromancy_ and _sacrificial magicks,_ and each time he heard a new one, he ran off to the library to search it out. He always listened carefully, and even though he didn’t understand all of it, it was interesting in a way that nothing else had ever been. Given that even the man with red eyes seemed to be so in love with these secret things, they _must_ be something absolutely wonderful. The man always begun one of his speeches by mentioning magic and always finished with another passing praise to magic. Harry quickly picked up a habit to take a deep breath in the silence that followed each lecture and softly sigh out "I really like magic", which sometimes gained him a rare, stiff, half-smile from the man with red eyes.

The only time when the man with red eyes seemed as intent as he was when speaking about the _secret things,_ was when he mentioned Hogwarts.

Harry wasn't sure what exactly this Hogwarts was, except an old castle. The way the man with red eyes sometimes spoke about it made Harry think it was the man's home, but then the discussion would gain a more agitated tone and the name _Dumbledore_ would be mentioned and the image would be destroyed. The man with red eyes could spent hours describing the corridors and halls when he was feeling nostalgic. And Harry always listened, even though he didn't find this Hogwarts nearly as interesting as the secret magic.

Once, speaking about Hogwarts, the man touched very lightly on the topic of ‘ _the Chamber’,_ but then grew rather quiet and thoughtful, leaving it there.

When Harry asked, "What of the chamber?" the man merely looked at him seriously.

"I have yet to decide. If it concerns you, you will know," he replied after a while. The man with red eyes spoke nothing more after that, and Harry didn't dare to pester him. The serious look didn't leave the man's face and he remained deep in thought till the nightfall.

…o0o…

Harry was invisible that night.

Of course he wasn't _really_ invisible, since he knew no spells that could make him appear so and he couldn't get his hands on to one of those fancy cloaks or amulets he had sometimes read about. No, Harry didn't need such things to become invisible. He had learned long time ago that if he was silent enough and stood still enough, people could walk right past him without noticing his presence. It was a useful skill, especially when one lived in a place like this and spent his days surrounded by people like these.

At that moment, Harry stood motionless in a corner of the entry hall, wrapped in the dusky darkness that so often lurked in the halls of the house he called home, and watched how strange black-clad people paraded through the front doors again. _Death Eaters_ , the man with red eyes called them. Each time when he spoke of them, the malicious, smug glint in his disturbing eyes seemed to intensify. _Death Eaters_ , and the words were branded deep into Harry's young and curious mind.

When Harry was younger and more foolish, he had believed that the man had grafted these creatures himself. Surely, only the man with red eyes could come up with something so horrendous and twisted and yet beautifully graceful at the same time. But when Harry had once timidly voiced his thoughts, the man had cackled a nearly delighted laughter and he had told that these people were his followers, his most loyal servants. Harry had not spoken of it again, because that mad laugh had truly terrified him at the time. And yet, even now, when Harry stared in wonder at the dark figures, he couldn't help pondering if there was actually flesh behind those masks, or if these people were just ghosts and nightmares hidden from the prying eyes by black robes and golden masks.

"Death Eaters," he muttered quietly to himself and the spell of invisibility cracked under the weight of the words. One of the dark figures caught the silent whisper and his head snapped into Harry's general direction, gaze piercing through the shadows into the corner where Harry stood. Neither Harry nor the Death Eater staring at him moved for a while; Harry unsure of what to do, and the Death Eater obviously weighing the chances that he was imagining the small child in the room. Slowly the dark figure raised his hand and nudged the arm of another Death Eater, before pointed towards the corner and Harry. More heads were turning towards Harry now, but he didn't move, just stared unblinkingly at the scene.

"It's a kid."

"What the. . .?"

"Is it real?"

Harry considered giving negative response to the last question in an effort to distract the unexpected attention he was receiving, but decided against of it. The man with red eyes didn't like it when he spoke without being spoke to, and he especially didn't like it when Harry said things that weren't true. There were many small things like that the man with red eyes couldn't stand, but Harry had learned them by heart and knew how to avoid them. Actually, if Harry was being completely honest, he quite believed that the man with red eyes didn't really like anything at all. He certainly always acted irritable enough.

"What are you doing here? Who _are_ you?" one of the Death Eaters asked and pushed past other people to Harry. There was sharp edge in the tone but it was still strangely soft, a woman's voice. "Does the Dark Lord know you are wandering around by yourself?"

"I'm watching," Harry replied and gazed calmly at the approaching Death Eater, "And the man with red eyes knows everything." That seemed to give a pause to the Death Eater, but she was quick to collect herself. Her slight hand grabbed Harry's thin arm with surprising strength and the child flinched at the contact.

"Do you not understand that it's foolish to come here now? These people wouldn't hesitate twice to kill you," the Death Eater hissed, lowering her voice so that only Harry could hear.

Harry pouted a bit, as he glared up at the Death Eater. He was used to death threats, but he still didn't think it was alright for a complete stranger to hand them out to him. Only the man with red eyes—and perhaps Nagini—had the right to do so.

Harry didn't have enough time to voice his opinion, though.

"Unhand the child, Narcissa," a chilly, familiar voice called somewhere from the front of the hall. The Death Eater holding Harry's arm let go immediately, very nearly flinching back. Harry watched fascinated how all the ghosts and nightmares fell to their knees, as the man with red eyes crossed the room gracefully. He halted to stop right before Harry and stared down at him, those unnerving crimson eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

"What are you doing here, brat?" he asked in that dangerously smooth voice that Harry would have probably found frightening if he weren’t so used to it.

In fact, the man with red eyes wasn't nearly as frightening as he thought he was. Whilst he was powerful and cruel beyond belief, and therefore, worth fear and respect, he was still more _real_ than almost everyone else Harry had met. He didn't hide behind the anonymity of those soulless golden masks. He didn't disguise his thoughts into meaningless words and long speeches like so many of his Death Eaters did. Harry could always trust the man with red eyes to say and do only what he meant, as well as mean what he said or did, no matter how cruel or vicious his intentions were. His actions and words made _sense_ and his every deed had a reason and purpose. The man with red eyes could no way be a ghost or a nightmare, because he was more alive and present than anyone else Harry knew.

Not that Harry knew many people, of course. He rarely was allowed outside the Manor and the people _inside_ the Manor were hardly the kind Harry would willingly approach even on a good day. But Harry had the man with red eyes, and he was enough people in one person to keep Harry satisfied for a lifetime.

"I'm watching," Harry repeated the explanation he had given mere minutes earlier to the nosy Death Eater.

"And pray tell, _why_ are you watching? Did I not specifically tell you to entertain yourself tonight _somewhere else_ than here?"

"You did," Harry nodded his agreement a bit sheepishly, "but someone has to watch when Nagini is away." It was the obvious explanation, of course, and Harry was slight surprised that he had to voice it in the first place.

The man with red eyes seemed to contemplate over the words, before nodded a little in response. "Very well. I trust you to report back to her once she returns."

Harry blinked. "Of course I will."

The man with red eyes scrutinised over his scrawny form, before he slowly pulled out his yew wand and swirled it lazily through his fingers. Harry watched the movement mesmerised, knowing perfectly well what was to come. He could hear the Death Eaters sifting restlessly in the background, but neither of the two paid them any mind.

"Do you know why?" the man with red eyes asked simply, not bothering to amend the question any further than necessary.

"Because I disobeyed," Harry answered straight away and gave a small nod, a tick of his thin neck more than an actual bow. It was an easy question, since disobedience and failures were the only two things the man with red eyes could not tolerate in any circumstances.

"Correct," the man with red eyes said and gave him a small tight smile. Harry was probably the only one present in the room who could see that twisted little smile for what it was: a gesture of approval. He grinned back, his small white teeth flashing in dark and green eyes glowing, and watched how the yew wand halted to point at him.

"My Lord. . ." the nearest Death Eater, the one whose name was Narcissa or something else equally silly, begun uncertainly, but she was silenced by one sharp crimson glance. Harry pondered silently, if he could learn the trick and someday glare like that, too. It could be a handy skill. Harry tested his death glare by scowling at his bare feet, but his toes didn't as much as cower.

"There is also another reason," the man with red eyes continued once he had silenced the Death Eater.

Harry thought it over carefully, before replied more hesitantly, "Because I got caught?"

The man with red eyes let his smile momentarily widen, before the expression died a dreadful death on his face and he murmured the curse into an ear-ringing silence, " _Crucio_."

Harry didn't scream. He knew from experience that screaming did nothing but gave him a sore throat later on and made eating and breathing uncomfortable. Instead, he bit his teeth together and squeezed his eyes closed, as unbearable pain and burn tore through his small body. He didn't register falling to the hard marble floor or how his limbs trembled uncontrollably. Even after the curse was lifted, after a surprisingly short moment, it took Harry a few moments to come back to himself, as the aftershocks slowly faded away. It took even greater effort to climb onto his shaky legs, straighten his back and look defiantly into those cold red eyes that seemed hell-bent at glaring him down again.

Harry could feel a single tear sliding down his cheek and the taste of blood was thick in his mouth. He hoped silently that he hadn't bitten into his tongue too badly. In the middle of their glaring contest, the man with red eyes suddenly reached over, lighting fast, and run his thumb over Harry's cheek, catching the lone tear before it reached Harry's chin. It took another brief moment, before he pocketed his wand and sighed a little.

"Come along then," the man with red eyes said simply, swirled around on his heels and started to march towards the staircase at the other end of the hall.

Harry lingered behind just long enough to allow himself a small victorious smile, before rushed after the quickly distancing figure. He was certain that he had once again passed one of the man's weird little tests, since he was allowed to tag along to whatever meeting was to be hold. Harry didn't really care for these meetings, for they were dull and lasted too long, but he _did_ like it when the man with red eyes was agreeable enough to let him attend. It made Harry feel important and accepted.

Harry skipped through the swarming Death Eaters, caught up with the man with red eyes and grasped a black sleeve tightly into his small hand. The red eyes glanced down at him momentarily, but as no sharp words followed, Harry hid another smile by bowing his head and grinning down at his bare feel. His toes wiggled, waving happily back at him.

…o0o…

It wasn't long before Harry wished he could be invisible again.

He could feel the chilling glares boring into the back of his head all the way up the stairs and through the second floor corridor. When he once or twice dared to glance over his shoulder, all he saw was golden masks and dark, empty eye sockets directed towards him. Those faceless, hollow stares made cold shivers run down Harry's spine, and he held tighter onto the black sleeve in his grasp. The man with red eyes seemed to be either oblivious or indifferent to the stares. Or perhaps he was used to them. Perhaps he even enjoyed those piercing, empty gazes and the undivided attention. Perhaps it was what he _wanted_. He was weird like that; always wanting silly things like attention, world dominance, or more faceless ghosts kneeling at his feet.

Harry proceeded to tell the man with red eyes exactly how weird he was. He was rewarded with a mild glare and a small shove that send him stumbling through the large double doors into the main dining hall.

Harry had always rather liked this particular hall. It was a huge room with high ceiling and large windows that gave to the west, giving a very nice view over the village of Little Hangleton. Unfortunately, the man with red eyes didn't appreciate that nice view nearly as much as Harry did, and the windows were mostly hidden behind dark purple velvet curtains. The walls were covered with ugly green wallpaper which was slowly peeling off, and the only carpet on the wooden floor was the thick layer of dust. The furniture of the whole wide room consisted in a single long table in the middle and several dozen chairs surrounding it, all of which were mostly designed to look good, rather than to be particularly comfortable.

All in all, the room had a very dramatic look to it, and it made Harry feel like he had stepped into one of those creepy horror stories he had sometimes read when he was allowed something else than dry textbooks and spell tomes. Truthfully, though, the only creepy thing the room had ever seen were the masked ghosts, and Harry didn't think those counted particularly horrifying, since the man with red eyes had them so perfectly under his control. They were quite sad little things actually, in all their bizarre, dark creepiness. _Death Eaters_. Harry wondered, if he could find them in the Monster Book of Monsters if he looked carefully enough.

"Pity that Nagini is not here," Harry mumbled, as he followed the man with red eyes across the room to the other end of the long table. Harry and Nagini sometimes held wizard's duels on that particular table when Nagini was around and they both had time for it. They were very good duels, considering that Harry didn't have his wand yet and that Nagini couldn't even _hold_ a wand even if she had one.

"Don't you _dare_ to set your foot on the table during this meeting," the man with red eyes hissed at him dangerously, "or I swear you'll spend a week under Cruciatus."

Harry glanced incredulously at the man, "You wouldn't _really_ do that, would you? Besides, you're always so busy, you wouldn't have the time to spend a week just cursing me."

"That's what I have followers for," the man with red eyes replied indifferently, as he sat dramatically down onto the seat just at the end of the table, his robes billowing around him. Harry observed him for a moment, trying to figure out how serious he was. It was hard to tell, since it was a rare occasion when the man looked anything else _but_ serious. He was angry, sometimes, but even then he looked seriously angry. In the end, Harry decided not to risk it, and made a mental note to keep his feet far away from the table during the following hours.

Perhaps he could find the man with red eyes in the Monster Book of Monsters, too. Most likely under the label of _Unreasonable and Irritable Monsters_.

"I still wish Nagini was here," Harry grumbled under his breath. He really missed her sometimes when she was away for a long time. She was the only one who dared to talk back at the man with red eyes and she never got cursed for it. Harry had never quite figured out why Nagini was given so much leeway when it came to disobedience and insolence, but he suspected that it was because Nagini was secretly the man's mother.

Chairs screeched against the floor, as the Death Eaters settled to their places, and Harry didn't miss how the man with red eyes grimaced at the harsh sound. A scowl appeared onto the man's face, and his cold, calculative eyes ran over his followers. Harry felt a bit sorry for them and gave a small apologetic smile to the closest one.

"Where do I sit?" Harry asked silently from the man with red eyes, who merely gave him a quick glance in reply, before pointed a finger down to the floor.

"Hmph," Harry huffed. He obediently sat down onto the floor, but not without crossing his thin arms over his chest and fixing a pout onto his face right after. Harry knew perfectly well that it would be no challenge at all for the man with red eyes to make another chair with his wand, probably even better one than the ones already in the room, but he still wasn't particularly surprised that the man refused to do it. Doing mean little things like this always made the man feel better about himself and his supposed evilness, so Harry didn't complain about it. It usually kept the man with red eyes in a better mood.

Once Harry was settled as comfortably as he could, he raised his eyes determinately to the Death Eaters and _watched_.

After all, watching was what he was good at.

…o0o…

If there was anything Severus Snape hated more than he hated the Dark Lord, it was being confused.

Confusion was a result of ignorance, and it was ignorance that led down the tragic path of mistakes and failures. Severus didn't consider himself particularly ignorant, instead he often prided himself quite observant and well-informed on important matters. Yet, he had to admit that he couldn't recall another time being so confused, than the moment when he sat on his seat around the large meeting table and observed at the small green-eyed child who sat at the Dark Lord's feet. The only thing that was making his confusion marginally easier to bear was the fact that everyone else appeared to be equally surprised by the child's sudden appearance at the Dark Lord's manor.

Although, Severus suspected that the mentioned appearance wasn't nearly as sudden as it seemed to be. The way the Dark Lord and this mysterious boy interacted indicated quite clearly that they both were familiar and almost _comfortable_ with each other. Seeing the Dark Lord handing out Cruciatus curses for disobedience was hardly anything new, but to see such a young child accept one so calmly and with surprising maturity was unexpected. Severus could only imagine how many times the torture curse must have been cast on to the boy to make him bear it so bravely. And yet, the most disturbing part was the child's elated smile, once the Dark Lord allowed him tag along to the meeting.

This child couldn't be the Dark Lord's son, could he? No, of course not. The whole idea was completely ludicrous. The Dark Lord was hardly paternal material by any means, and it was unlikely that the man held such a thing as an heir in particularly high regard. After all, the man did intend to live forever, and therefore, an heir was quite unnecessary. Besides, if the man _had_ an heir surely he would be someone more... well, simply _more_ in every sense of the word.

The green-eyed child was tiny little thing and by the looks of it Severus would guess that he was hardly any older than Draco was, judging by what Severus could remember form the last time he had seen his godson. Although, whilst Draco was a fair and unnecessarily loud child, the green-eyed boy had unruly black hair and he had only spoken a few quiet words directly to the Dark Lord. He wore very ordinary green robes that were a few sizes too big on him and his feet were completely bare. While, there _was_ something undeniably unnatural about the child, something that made Severus want to avert his eyes and pretend that the boy wasn't even there, but he definitely wasn't special enough to be the Dark Lord's heir.

Severus pushed his curiosity forcefully down and returned his focus onto the ongoing meeting.

"My fatherhas expressed his interest in running for the position of the Minister of Magic," Barty Crouch Jr. was currently saying, disdain gloating his each word. "If that happens, it is likely that he'll force through most of the laws that have so far been hindered by the Ministry’s red tape, including those which would allow harsher torture and forced Veritaserum on suspected Death Eaters."

"This is an expected turn of events, of course," the Dark Lord responded, sounding almost bored, "but it is true that the man is becoming a menace."

"While that is true, I am not certain his disposal would be the wisest course of action, my lord," commented Lucius Malfoy's voice further down the table, "In the eyes of public he is the only one trying to bring justice to these unsure times. I fear that his death could affect negatively to your support from neutral parties."

Severus was one of the few who noticed how the small child's green eyes narrowed at the words, but only because he had been looking for it. He watched fascinated how the boy first stared thoughtfully at Lucius, before turning his gaze slowly up to the Dark Lord. His green eyes didn't waver, as he stared intently at the most powerful wizard of the century, obviously waiting for the man to notice his stare. The Dark Lord noticed it rather quickly, tried to ignore it, and go on with the meeting, but snapped before long.

"What _is it_?"

"What does death taste like?" the child asked and the question rang clear in the silence of the hall. It seemed that all action in the room froze, as the echo of the words faded away, and all eyes fastened onto the boy. If the Dark Lord himself was taken back by the question, he didn't express it any visible way.

"Why do you ask?" the Dark Lord inquired.

"Well," the boy began and glanced at the people gathered around the table, "They're Death _Eaters_ , aren't they? And since there's so many of them, I thought that death must taste pretty good!" the boy declared innocently, before seemed to pause to consider something. "Though, they do sound hungry. You should feed them more."

Bellatrix's easily recognisable, delighted shriek of laughter broke the silence. One glare from the Dark Lord was enough to silence her.

"I promise that one day you will find out exactly what death tastes like. But today is not the day," the Dark Lord replied simply, and, to the great surprise of his Death Eaters, there was rather obvious amusement in his tone.

"Tomorrow then? For breakfast, perhaps?" the child asked without pause, his eyes looking eagerly up to the Dark Lord.

And as the Dark Lord smirked wickedly down at the boy and replied, "We shall see," Severus was suddenly greatly doubting his earlier conclusion about the child _not_ being the Dark Lord's son. Could murderous tendencies be an inherited characteristic? The boy only gave a solemn nod and went back to his staring, observing the Death Eaters with even keener interest than earlier. Severus was starting to find that stare surprisingly unnerving.

The Dark Lord gazed down at the boy for a moment before looked back to the Death Eaters, his cold red eyes boring into one of them in particular. Crouch Jr. twitched restlessly under the stare.

"Perhaps the time has come for the world to find out about your allegiances," the Dark Lord said, "Make it public enough, so that the Ministry can't hush it down."

"My Lord, my position at the Ministry—"

"Do as I said," the Dark Lord spat out sharply, cutting Crouch's sentence short and making most of the Death Eaters flinch slightly. "It's unlikely that the wizarding world will vote for a Minister candidate who can't even keep his own son on his side."

"I will take care of it, My Lord," Crouch nodded and bowed slightly.

A clear, childish voice cut the air of the conference hall again, "Is Mai your first name? No wonder you have never told me your name, if it's silly like that!" The Dark Lord turned slowly to look down at the child and the look in his eyes was absolutely murderous. Apparently the boy recognised the look, as well, since his voice was timid when he added, "Or am I supposed to call you Mr. Lord?"

Severus was certain that there would soon be a new gravestone in the Little Hangleton's graveyard, when the Dark Lord pulled out his wand and pointed it at the child with nerve-wrecking calmness. The child, however, didn't even flinch, but looked exceedingly sheepish instead, while his eyes crossed as he stared at the tip of the wand. The child was either very brave or incredibly foolish. Or maybe a bit of both.

_A Gryffindor_ , Severus thought with a mental sneer.

"I didn't—" the boy began, but the Dark Lord waved his wand once and whispered the spell under his breath, too quietly for anyone to catch on what it was. The boy's sentence was cut short with a sharp gasp and his both hands rose to cover his mouth as his eyes widened. The Dark Lord looked distantly satisfied by the reaction, as he laid his wand gently down onto the table again. His calm façade didn't shatter once during the display, which was absolutely unheard of. The Dark Lord wasn't exactly known for his self-control or composure when enraged.

"Three days. Now get out of here," the wizard said simply without looking at the child again. The boy gave the Dark Lord a crushing glare, mustering up a surprising amount of sheer annoyance from his small form and flaring it around like some kind of weird wandless magic, before turned proudly around and started to march towards the doors. There was a certain kind of haughtiness and deep disapproval in the boy's expression that looked greatly out of place on his young face. As the child walked past, his green eyes met Severus gaze for a brief moment that didn't last as long as a blink of an eye, but that was still enough to shatter the entire world around Severus.

He _remembered_ those eyes. He remembered that certain shade of green and that confident stubbornness that resided in it. He remembered how those eyes looked when they laughed and he remembered them when they cried. Just as well he remembered how they glared and how gentle they could be. He remembered those eyes so painfully well that it made breathing difficult and his heart ache. How could he _not_ remember?

Then the moment was over, the boy leapt out of the room, and Severus was left alone into the world that would never again be the same.

Those had been Lily's eyes. Severus was sure of it. And now that he had that important piece of puzzle in its right place, everything else fell after it so fast that Severus had to struggle to keep up with it. The boy was Lily's child. The child of Lily and _Potter_. Harry, was his name, if Severus still remembered correctly. Harry Potter. The child of the prophecy. The missing, supposedly dead child. But no, the child wasn't dead and nor was he missing anymore. He was right _here_ , alive and well, in the clutches of the Dark Lord.

_Lily's child_ who had suffered Cruciatus right before Severus' eyes and who asked what death tasted like with sincere curiosity.

It had been years since Severus had felt such deep, earth-shattering desperation, as he was enjoying that particular moment. In fact, he had not felt it since that one disastrous night when he had passed the prophecy on to the Dark Lord and condemned Lily to her death. In a sense, that same chaos filled night had also brought Severus into this situation. _He_ had condemned this small boy who had Lily's eyes to his fate by whispering the words of the prophecy straight to the Dark Lord and giving him a reason to turn all his destructive cruelty towards the boy.

The prophecy. That damned prophecy had been Severus' personal curse for far too many years. It was his punishment for all his bad deeds and wrong choices. And now the thrice cursed thing had came around to hit Severus with an emotional _Crucio_ right in his face once more.

This child, this _Harry_ , was the one prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord, and here he was, giving all his gentle smiles and silent words to the man he was meant to vanquish, hidden far away from the world he was meant to save. After witnessing all he had seen so far, Severus could only speculate how deep into the child the Dark Lord had sunk his poisonous claws, and if there was any sense in hoping salvation for the boy or if he was too far gone. Truly, it now made a world of sense that Albus had been unable to find the child earlier, seeing how deeply wrapped in the Dark he was, standing in the middle of the maelstrom that was the Dark Lord and his growing empire.

A part of Severus wanted to jump on his feet right away, run through the doors and find the boy, before Apparating them both somewhere safe. Luckily, the more sensible part of him reminded that he wouldn't even make it to the door, not when the Dark Lord sat a few feet away from him. All Severus could do now was to sit through the meeting and hurry his information to the Headmaster afterwards. That was his only chance to salvage anything.

"It appears that Severus is too busy enjoying an epiphany to pay much attention to the progression of this meeting," a familiar cold voice cut into Severus' consciousness, tearing through his thoughts and making him cringe involuntarily. Severus paid extra mind in schooling his expression back to normal and keeping his voice steady as he spoke.

"I apologise, My Lord. I was rather... surprised by certain revelations," Severus said carefully and hoped that he didn't sound as uneasy and shaken as he felt. The Dark Lord offered him a twisted smirk.

"Yes, that much is obvious," the man said, while his calculative gaze weighed Severus solemnly. When he spoke again, there was a warning note in his tone, "Remain behind afterwards. I have a few things that need to be addressed."

Severus nodded respectfully, understanding perfectly the hidden meaning in the words. It was an order for Severus to keep his realisation to himself for the time being, and Severus had every intention to respect it. He had to stay alive at least long enough to inform Albus of this new turn of events. This might very well change the course of the whole war and alter the destiny of their world. And this time around, Severus intended to play his part properly. His deeds had condemned Lily to her death, but he still might be able to save her son. That’s the least he could do for her.

Hence, rest of the meeting passed in haze for Severus. Nothing the Death Eaters said held much meaning to him, and the importance of all the information was overshadowed by the mystery that was Harry Potter. He anticipated the discussion with the Dark Lord with uncharacteristic eagerness, but at the same time he was afraid of where the conversation could lead. If he had no luck at all, the Dark Lord could bound him by a vow not to reveal his knowledge to anyone, or perhaps even _Obliviate_ or simply kill him. Severus suspected that no one besides him and the Dark Lord knew of the significance of the child and, for all Severus knew, the Dark Lord intended to keep it that way.

When the Dark Lord finally dismissed his followers, Severus remained where he was, only standing up as the Dark Lord did so.

"You know who the boy is, don't you, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked, when the door closed behind the last of the Death Eaters.

"I have my suspicions, My Lord," Severus replied diplomatically, not wanting to give away too much. With the Dark Lord it was better to keep words soft and tender, because it was likely the man would sooner or later force-feed them right back.

The Dark Lord obviously realised what Severus was doing, since he gave the spy a less-than-amused half smirk before spoke again, "I want you to inform Dumbledore of these _suspicions_ of yours."

That certainly took Severus by surprise, though nothing but a slow blink revealed his reaction outwardly.

"My Lord, do you not believe that the knowledge of the boy being alive would encourage Dumbledore to organise some kind of a... Gryffindorish rescue attempt?" Severus asked carefully.

"It is unlikely. Dumbledore cannot afford risking his already diminishing forces on such a suicide mission," the Dark Lord replied. Severus knew what the Dark Lord said was true, of course, and he still had to violently squash the small portion of himself that wanted to ask what kind of protection the Dark Lord had arranged for the boy. Such questions would no doubt make the Dark Lord suspicious and would certainly not help the case of one Harry Potter. Severus hoped that if he was careful enough and played his cards right he might eventually get a chance to speak to the boy directly, hopefully even without the Dark Lord's restricting presence.

"I want him to attend Hogwarts, when the time comes," the Dark Lord said finally, revealing the reason for his odd request. Whatever Severus had been expecting, it certainly wasn't _this_ and without his years of experiences as a double-spy he would be picking up his jaw from the floor at this point. Severus _had_ to find out the reason for this seemingly mad decision. Placing the boy right under Dumbledore's nose was very a risky thing to do, if the Dark Lord intended to keep the boy's loyalties.

"Hogwarts, My Lord? Surely Durmstrang or—"

"His placement in Hogwarts is essential for my plans. That is all you need to know," the Dark Lord cut in and his razor-sharp glare choked any further questions and objections in Severus' throat.

Severus nodded his understanding. "Do you wish Dumbledore to know about your plans to enrol the boy into Hogwarts?"

"No, not yet. The information that the boy is alive ought to be enough for the old coot for now," the Dark Lord said, "See that it reaches his ears. You're dismissed."

Severus bowed slightly and hurried out, completely missing the small bundle of living being, sitting just outside the dining hall doors.

…o0o…

Harry was invisible again.

He sat on the floor outside the dining room, leaning against the opposite wall and glaring sullenly at the closed doors. He had just found a third thing to add onto his little list of the things that the man with red eyes won't tolerate. Apparently the man had serious issues when it came to his name. Three _days_ without tongue? Speak about unreasonable!

Harry stuck one of his tiny fingers into his mouth and felt around the hollow space curiously. It was a _strange_ feeling, not having his tongue where it ought to be. His teeth were right there, their sharp edges scratching Harry's finger, soft inner cheeks, the hard roof of his mouth and then absolutely _nothing_ else. He tried to make some kind of noise, but all he managed was incomprehensible whining and gurgling. Harry had to hand it to the man, his punishments were getting more creative as time passed. Harry wasn't entirely sure if it was a good or a bad thing.

Harry slumped heavily against the wall and heaved a deep sigh.

Nagini would be disappointed in him once she got back. Harry had promised that he would keep an eye on things for her, and all he had managed was to get kicked out of a meeting. Nagini was very curious about things that went on in the manor. Unnaturally curious, when remembered that she was a _snake_ and the matters of humans usually had very little effect on her daily life. Nagini had once explained that she had to know everything important in order to help 'Tom', whenever help is needed, but when Harry had asked who this Tom person was, she had give a mysterious comment along the lines: "I'm sure you'll find out one day, snakeling". Nagini was incredibly frustrating like that sometimes, with all her mystifying little statements and confusing explanations. Although, from what Harry had gathered, most of the snakes had same kind of attitude; they liked to appear more mysterious than they really were. Being only tails with faces and all that, they liked to have something to boost their ego.

The last of the daylight had escaped the halls of the manor by the time when the doors of the dining hall finally creaked open again. The corridor was completely dark and it was easier for Harry to hide in the open view, as he watched the cloaked figures flood through the doors. Some of them were speaking with hurried, hushed tones and others seemed to only want to get out as soon as possible. None of them noticed Harry even though a few almost stepped on him in their haste. It was a few minutes later that the last of the ghosts appeared through the doors and this was seemed to be even in more of a hurry than all the others. He didn't notice Harry either, didn't even glance down enough to have a chance at noticing him, and Harry shook amusedly his head, as he watched the lone Death Eater rushing down the corridor.

They weren't very bright creatures, these Death Eaters, or at least not particularly observant. Harry could remember all those times when the man with red eyes had been mad because of them and mumbled feverishly about 'incompetent fools'. Suddenly those words were so much easier to understand.

Soon after, the man with the red eyes stepped through the doors at more reasonable pace, and Harry's invisibility cracked immediately under the red gaze.

Harry hadn’t been lying when he hours prior told the Death Eater that the man with red eyes knew everything. The man did know everything. He also saw everything and Harry's pseudo-invisibility was useless against him and his piercing red glare.

But Harry wasn't blind himself either. He, too, could see small details that other people were oblivious to. Only Harry could see the small tired frown that was carefully hidden behind an angry glare. No one else but Harry would have noticed that the grimace the man shot at him wasn't annoyed _because of_ him, but because the man wished to have a moment of peace, instead of having to deal with Harry. Harry was the only one who could have interpreted the small sigh that followed correctly as a sound of defeat, instead of counting it as an annoyed huff. And all those small details made Harry feel a little bad for the man.

"I should have come up with this a long while ago," the man with red eyes muttered, "This rare silence from you is a gift from Merlin."

Harry rolled his eyes and stumbled back onto his feet. He stole a bit of time by wiping most of the dust from his clothes, before made a sudden mad dash across the corridor. Before the man with red eyes had enough time to react, Harry had already wrapped his thin arms tightly around the man's midsection and buried his face into his dark robes. The man tensed immediately and Harry could feel the irritated glare boring into the top of his head. Yet, he refused to let go, before he felt reluctant fingers run through his hair once. Harry pulled back enough to beam widely up to the man.

"Yes, you can be a nuisance even when you're forced to be silent. I do believe you have made your point," the man with red eyes said, as he rolled his eyes a little and shoved Harry gently away. Harry only beamed wider and skipped happily after the man, when he started to walk towards his study.

They were halfway there, when Harry suddenly remembered. He quickly ran up to the man with red eyes and tugged at his sleeve, before pointed excitedly back towards where they had come from. The man with red eyes quirked a curious eyebrow and Harry made a dramatic show of opening a non-existent book and reading it.

"What book do you want?" the man with red eyes asked and the annoyance was back in his tone. The annoyance, however, was easy for Harry to ignore since the man _always_ sounded more or less annoyed. Harry raised his hands and made very scary canine teeth out of his index fingers in hopes of making himself look like a monster. It wasn't apparently working very well, since the other eyebrow joined the first, as the man with red eyes stared at the display.

Finally the man gave up with a slight snarl and Harry could feel a foreign presence invading his mind. He tried to ignore his senses that screamed for him to fight back and block the attack, and instead he just let the man with red eyes rummage through his thoughts uninterrupted. It only took few brief seconds before the presence pulled back.

"You have the strangest ideas," the man with red eyes told Harry dryly, but raised his wand and summoned the desired book with one neat flick. He offered the book to Harry, who accepted it with a satisfied grin. Then the man turned again and continued on his way without bothering to check if Harry followed. It wasn't really necessary to check, since both of them knew perfectly well that Harry _would_ follow.

Harry hugged the book tightly to his chest, to stop it from escaping or attacking, and hurried quickly after the man with red eyes. As he slipped into the man's study and took his place on the comfy green armchair in the corner of the room, Harry couldn't help the small happy smile that insisted on appearing onto his face without permission. The man with red eyes _was_ often irritable and unreasonable, but he had his human moments every now and then.

Harry petted the Monster book of Monsters gently and set to work with all the determination of a six-year-old.

…o0o…

Meanwhile, far away in the ancient castle of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore remembered for the first time in a very long while what hope felt like.


	2. Of All The Little Things

Sometimes, Harry still recalled fondly those days when the Manor had been surrounded by a large, green, and thriving garden. He could still recall how he had used to run around it, just for childishly simplistic fun, or how he had laid on the grass for hours on end and counted all the clouds floating above. Those had been nice days, very easy and carefree.

There wasn't much left of the garden anymore.

Where once flowerbeds had bloomed, now resided nothing but bare, burnt ground. Where a green mat of grass had once stretched over everything, laid now a four-inch layer of ash and dust which would swirl and dance around Harry's ankles when he walked through it. The ash would stick to every inch of his skin and clung to his clothes stubbornly for weeks afterwards.

It could hardly be called _beautiful_ anymore, but it was definitely memorable and extraordinary in its own way. And yet, Harry sometimes missed all the lively green.

The simple reason why there was no longer a garden was the Dark Lord's rather short and explosive temper. Harry had always known that the man had low tolerance for anything irritating, but so far the most extreme reaction had been set off by simple garden gnomes.

It had been a few weeks before Harry's eight birthday, in the beginning of the July, when he had spotted the first of them. A tiny and ugly creature had hobbled through the yard and disappeared between the flowerbeds as soon as it had appeared. At first, Harry had thought nothing of it, but then the second one had appeared mere days later and then a third one on the very same day. Within a week after their first appearance, the population of these strange little beings had exploded and armies of them marched daily up and down the garden pathways on their aimless journey. That was the point when Harry's curiosity had gotten better of him, and he had snatched up one of them in passing and brought it into the Manor to show it to the man with red eyes.

The man had stared down at the small creature with a strange mix of disdain and resignation on his face, before he had sighed heavily.

"I _knew_ I forgot something when I added the wards," he had commented finally and rubbed his eyes despairingly.

"They're gnomes, aren't they?" Harry had asked excitedly.

"Unfortunately. And you said there were more them?"

“Dozens! Maybe hundreds!" Harry had exclaimed, "And each day there are more than the day before."

"I do wish you had come to me when you saw the first one. Then it might have been possible to get rid of them. Now it's too late," the man had sighed. "I will fix the wards tonight and inform Nagini that she can eat as many as she can catch."

"But where did they come from?" Harry has asked curiously, as he had poked the wobbly gnome which had been swaggering around the desktop and wielding quills like swords. The gnome had fallen down onto its back, hopped up quickly and glared daggers at Harry.

"Nowhere and everywhere. Magical plants and herbs attract them, and once they find the source of the magic, they settle down and breed," the Dark Lord had explained. "They are mostly harmless, until the point where there are simply too _many_ of them. Then they are nearly impossible to get rid of."

Since he hadn't sounded too irritated by then, Harry had dared to ask another question, "Why weren't there any before?"

"This used to be a muggle house," the man had replied, sounding obviously displeased by the fact. "It took a while for the magic to settle and for magical plants to seed from that magic, but now they apparently have, since gnomes find this environment to be an appropriate habitat."

The man had glared down at the unfortunate gnome which had been sitting on the desk, looking rather lost and lonely. Probably missing its hundreds of friends and family, Harry had deducted. He had barely finished the thought, when a pale spidery hand had reached out fast as a striking snake, snatched up the creature and wrung its tiny neck with terrible _crunch_. Harry had involuntarily flinched when the creatures limp body had fallen back onto the desk.

"Anything else?" the Dark Lord had asked and, recognizing the cold tone, Harry had quickly shook his head. He had picked up the dead gnome and had later buried it into the back of the garden, while hundreds of tiny eyes had stared on. Harry had felt quite sad then, knowing that some of those funeral quests would soon meet their end in the endless pit of Nagini's stomach.

About a week later it had become obvious that it didn't really matter how many gnomes Nagini ate or how many little necks the Dark Lord snapped, since the number of their uninvited house guests only seemed to increase. It had become impossible to exit or enter the house without at least a few gnomes slipping into the house through the crack of the door. Equally impossible it was to walk through the garden without a million eyes following each step and about three dozen little feet scurrying right behind.

Harry had watched how Nagini had become happier by day as she had hunted the creatures around the garden. He had seen how the Dark Lord's patience had slowly worn thin and how the red eyes had grown colder and harder by each gnome found in the house. Those had been interesting times for Harry and he had found himself ignoring his studies in order to observe the meaningless little lives of the new garden occupants. Harry had picked up a habit of pocking one of the gnomes down with a stick, just to watch with fascination how at least a dozen others would trip on their fallen companion, until the growing pile of wildly twitching tiny legs and hands had been as high as it was wide.

Then, he had started to find gnomes in his wardrobe in the morning when he dressed and in his bed when he went to sleep at night. One night he had stayed in the library until it was dark and on the way back to his room small bones had crunched beneath his feet, when he hadn’t been able see where he was stepping. Harry had felt awful that night, but had felt a lot less sympathetic in the morning, when he had found his bathroom taken over by a small legion of gnomes.

It had been on the very same day when the Dark Lord had finally snapped after finding two gnomes bathing in their dinner soup. After a few moments of deafening silence and a few violent curses that followed, the Dark Lord had gotten up and stormed through the halls to the front door in a whirl of dark robes. Harry had run after him as fast as he could, but by the time he had reached the yard, first of the apple trees had already been licked by angry green flames. One elegant wave of the yew wand had sent the flames ravaging through the whole yard like a pack of wild wolves.

The crackle of fire hadn't quite been enough to drown out the muffled, horrified screams that had rung from underneath the flora. Hoards of little gnomes had run from the grass, trying to get away from the burning danger, but another flick of the wand had raised walls of fire in their way, stopping the desperate escape before it had properly begun. The stench of smoke and burning foliage and flesh had been thick in the air and it had brought tears to Harry’s eyes.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he had asked—more like yelled—over the roar of the fire, trying to catch the Dark Lord's attention. The man had barely glanced at him.

"Get into the house. _Now_ ," had come the short order in return. Harry hadn't had much choice, so he had obeyed in silence. Instead, he had watched from the second floor windows how the fire had completely destroyed their once beautiful garden.

The fires had burned for three days straight. Harry had known that it was no ordinary fire, since the flames had been too hot and violent and had reeked of Dark magic, but even then he had been mildly impressed at how utterly devastating sight had greeted him when the Dark Lord had finally allowed the spell to fade and had given Harry a permission to step out of the house. There had been absolutely _nothing_ left. The house had been unharmed but the garden... There had been no hint of green anywhere beneath the grey and white ashes, no flower or tree reaching for the sky. But neither had there been any gnomes wobbling around.

Harry had walked unhurriedly through the destruction, taking in the miserable sight. He had crouched and pushed his finger tips into the ash that had still been warm and very fine. The greyness had clung to Harry's fingers even after he had wiped his fingers onto his robes.

He had already been returning to the house, mildly disheartened, when something had unexpectedly crunched loudly beneath his heel. He had dug into the still-warm ash and recovered a small, blackened half of a gnome skull. Those mementos of gnome hard-headedness, which could be found buried into the ash for years afterwards, were the only evidence left that, where a miniature wasteland now stretched, there had once been a garden and a grand kingdom of gnomes.

…o0o…

But it had happened years ago.

On that specific morning, when Harry stood invisible in the yard of the Manor, his toes buried in ash and eyes keenly following the tall, blonde figure striding up the pathway, he didn't spare any longing thoughts to grass, trees, or gnomes. There were very few reasons why this curious stranger would be here in the first place and all of those reasons involved the Dark Lord one way or another.

However, the Dark Lord was not at home, that much Harry knew for sure. When he had first woken up that morning, feeling electrified and bored out of his mind, all that had greeted him into the new day was an empty, unforgiving silence that had rang hollow in the halls of the Manor. Harry was intimately familiar with all kinds of silences by now, seeing how he had grown up amongst them. This silence had been tense and agitated, a waiting one. That kind of silence that had stood unstirred for so long that, for anyone who would listen, it practically screamed to be broken again. Harry himself would never have dared to meddle with a silence like that, and thus, he had carefully snuck out of the house and stayed outside for good, while waiting for the morning to tick away.

He had collected thirteen and half gnome skulls by the time when this strange man had Apparated outside the Manor’s gates with a swish of an expensive cloak and a haughty tap of a cane. Harry was quite sure he had seen the man swaggering around the Manor before, since there was something familiar in his arrogantly confident gait and ridiculously fair, nearly white, hair. However, despite the vague recognition, a warning voice in the back of his mind whispered for Harry to stay put and not to draw attention to himself. It sounded suspiciously like an echo of something the Dark Lord might have said, and therefore, Harry didn't bother stopping this familiar stranger on his way. He merely watched how the visitor walked up the pathway and stopped just before the doors to hesitate for a brief moment, seemingly to draw a deep breath, before he entered the Manor. The double doors slammed closed behind him and Harry let the whole matter slip from his mind with a small shrug.

He crouched into the ash again and started to push the delicate layers of dirt from his way. Before long, another gnome skull slipped into his pocket.

On a shelf in his room Harry had around two hundred and eighty skulls, all arranged into neat rows and organized according to size. It had been something of a hobby ever since The Great Gnome Incident. It wasn't much, a bit boring and uninteresting after the fascination with gnomes had dissipated, but it was something to do when time passed slowly.

And now it sure did pass slowly, painfully so. It happened sometimes when the Dark Lord was away. Time itself seemed to slow down impossibly, before halting altogether, as if the world had forgotten it was meant to carry on moving in the man’s absence. Seconds lasted centuries and Harry grew old and more patient by moment. And always when the Dark Lord returned, time didn't just return to normal, it seemed to speed along, swirl out of control and dance by too fast to keep up, and Harry would be young and foolish and confused all over again.

Harry's fingers curled around another small skull and he raised it to eye level, observing carefully. He scratched a bit of dirt from an empty eye socket and wiped most of the ash away with his sleeve, before let the depths of his pocket swallow up the tiny bone structure.

A demanding hoot interrupted Harry, before he could return to his search. When he looked up, he was being closely observed by a light brown owl which had landed onto the ash a few feet away. Harry stared back.

"How did I not hear you arrive?" he wondered aloud and looked around searchingly, as if the answer would simply hang somewhere in the air for him to grasp. It didn't, however, and the owl merely hooted in reply. It extended a leg, onto which was attached a thick parchment envelope, and hooted impatiently again.

"No, no, it's not for me!" Harry hurried to explain, "He's not here right now and I don't know when he'll be back."

The owl either didn't care or didn't understand. With a swish of great wings it hopped closer and shoved its leg persistently towards Harry.

"Fine. I'll pass it along," Harry sighed, when it became apparent that the owl would not leave before the letter was delivered. Harry gently extracted the letter and in the same instant the owl was in the air again. Harry let his eyes fall onto the letter and the world froze.

On the envelope in green ink read:

_Harry J. Potter_   
_The_ _Riddle Manor_   
_Little Hangleton_

But that couldn't be right, could it now?

Harry never got letters. He didn't even know anyone who would sent him letters! Nagini couldn't exactly write letters without arms and surely the Dark Lord had no need to _write_ to Harry, if he wanted to say something. Something was clearly amiss here.

Harry cradled the envelope carefully in his hands and read the words again. They didn't change, but stood stubbornly there on the parchment: clear, unmistakable and suspicious. Only thing that seemed slightly out of place was the name Potter _,_ since Harry had never known that he actually _had_ a surname. But then again, the letter was clearly addressed to The Riddle Manor, Little Hangleton, and the only Harry living there was him, so it didn't exactly leave much room for interpretation. Well, assuming, of course, that there was no Harries hidden somewhere in the dark depths of the dungeons where Harry himself was not allowed to wander. Somehow, it didn't seem likely that those Harries would be receiving any mail at all.

As thoughts, assumptions and wild deductions started to mix into a chaotic concoction in Harry's mind, only one thought rang clear through it all: he _needed_ to find the Dark Lord. Preferably sooner rather than later. Harry swirled on his heels and sprinted to the front doors, tore them open and sprung inside the entry hall, only to slam painfully against another person that had just been trying to exit through the same door.

Harry stumbled backwards, fell on his behind and hit his head against the door frame, so that galaxies danced before his eyes for several seconds. Sharp pain spread to the back of his head, but he ignored it determinedly, as he sprang back onto his feet. He looked up, blinking tears of agony from his eyes and spoke:

"Thank Merlin you're here! This stupid owl—"

The sentence withered on Harry's lips when his brain registered that it was not, in fact, the one and only Dark Lord he was addressing, but the blond stranger who had arrived earlier and whose presence Harry had entirely forgotten by now.

"Oh," Harry commented smartly and nodded a little in greeting. The gesture made colourful lights explode in his vision. "Hey, didn't realise you were still here."

Something akin to surprise and mild annoyance had danced across the stranger's angular face, but under Harry's expectant stare the expression quickly transformed into a more neutral one. A single light eyebrow quirked up and thin lips settled into a tight line.

"He hasn’t returned then?" Harry asked, before the blond man could manage a sound.

Ire tucked a muscle at the man's jaw, but he replied anyway, stiffly, "If you speak of the Dark Lord, then the answer is no. To my knowledge he is not present at the moment."

Harry frowned. "Did you check the dungeons?"

"Of course I did," the man bit out with clear irritation now.

Harry offered a small sheepish smile of consolation. "Yes, of course. Sorry I asked. It's just, well, usually he is back by nine o'clock when he's away all night. He can't really function without his morning tea, so..." Harry ended the sentence with a little shrug.

As long as Harry could remember it had been a habit of the Dark Lord's; drinking tea precisely at nine o'clock every morning. Harry would always join him, never talk much, but always wait and listen in case the man felt like sharing his daily plans with him. There was something strange about tea, something that made the man behind the façade of the Dark Lord more relaxed and pleasant to be around. Those moments were Harry's favourites. That calm peacefulness—which hid poorly the restlessness that the Dark Lord always emitted—made Harry happy on some very simple and human level that he couldn't quite explain.

"He has been away all night?" the man asked with a small frown creasing his brow. Harry understood, since he sometimes worried about the Dark Lord, too. Especially when he was away for long times or left suddenly without leaving any explanations behind. Harry suddenly felt much more sympathetic towards this strange intruder in his home.

"Yes, he often is," Harry nodded, relieved that the building irritation in the air had dissipated slightly. "He prefers to work at night, I think."

"Hm," the man hummed vaguely, not paying much attention to what Harry was saying. He looked troubled, so Harry let him think in peace. He watched the man curiously and noted that this close he looked older. Not exactly _old,_ but stretched and tired the way old people often seemed to be. The resemblance was all in his eyes, though, and hidden in the few lines crossing his face. His overall appearance spoke of nothing but ageless elegance and self-control. A carefully worn mask, Harry decided, unsurprised. It was a common phenomenon around here, these masks and masks beneath masks.

The silence in the entry hall stretched, but Harry didn't mind. He was too busy wondering what he was supposed to say next. He had never spent much time around people other than the Dark Lord. Therefore, socialising with them was an art that he had never really had the need to master. He wished Nagini was here to help him, to offer some guidance and comfort, but she had been gone this morning, too. No, Harry would have to handle this alone.

"Um, I. . . Would you like some tea?" he asked finally, inwardly cringing at how stupidly hesitant he sounded. "I mean, erm, if you want to wait for him? It would probably be best if we had a pot of tea ready for when he comes."

The man stared at Harry like he had spoken in a foreign language, but before Harry could ask again—just in case he _had_ accidentally slipped to parseltongue—the man nodded suddenly, stiffly and almost reluctantly, but accepting nonetheless.

"Yes, tea would suffice," he said and Harry offered him a delighted grin. Clearly he was doing something right here. He skipped over to the man and snatched his sleeve, before started to drag him towards the staircase.

"We should probably wait in his study," Harry told easily. "He doesn't really like it when people wander around the Manor, especially when he's not here." When he looked up, he could see how the blond man was staring offended at the spot where Harry had a firm hold on his person. Harry let go quickly.

"Uh, sorry," he mumbled and smiled a bit sheepishly.

"It is quite alright," the man replied awkwardly, all the while sounding like it's anything but alright. Harry didn't dare to say anything more, so he merely led the man to the study, before calling for a house elf.

"A pot of tea, please. Strong tea," Harry told the miserable sniffling creature and smiled kindly. "And three cups as well. Oh! And biscuits, lots of them."

The elf bowed low and left with a soft _pop_.

"I'm not really allowed to eat biscuits," Harry explained to his guest. "I always eat too many and get sick. So, um, would it be okay if I said I asked them for you?"

The man was staring at Harry again with a peculiar expression on his face.

"If it's not too much trouble?" Harry added quickly.

"Biscuits? Right, fine," the man sounded like he was trying to solve some kind of a puzzle, confused, mildly frustrated, and not really getting anywhere with it. Then he cleared his throat loudly and visibly gathered himself. "I am Lucius Malfoy."

"Oh, right! I'm Harry. Hi!" Harry grinned at the man again and politely waved a hand towards the armchair in the corner, the one Harry usually sat on himself. The stranger, Lucius Malfoy—what a strange name—sat down, whilst Harry rounded the desk and easily hopped to sit on the chair behind it. It was usually the Dark Lord's seat, but Harry didn't think the man would mind, since he wasn't even here. Mr. Malfoy appeared to disagree, since he glanced at Harry like had just done something entirely insane, before shook his head and schooled his expression again. The calculative look that then strayed onto his face unnerved Harry a little, but he didn't let it show.

"So, _Harry,_ " this Lucius Malfoy began, "how old are you?"

Well, that wasn't exactly what Harry had been expecting.

"Um, ten? Well, almost eleven," he replied, confused, and out of politeness asked, "How old are you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Well, that hardly matters", the man scoffed back dryly, which Harry thought was a little impolite. After all, _Harry_ had bothered to answer.

"Oh," Harry mumbled. It was all so odd, these rules people set of what was acceptable and what was not. Then, Harry realised that instead of a painful trial, he could take this as an opportunity. "Though, I bet you're old," he commented easily.

Mr. Malfoy stared at Harry with silent indignant disbelief.

"And probably wise, too," Harry hurried to continue, before the guest could take it the wrong way. "Know all kinds of things, don't you?"

Mr. Malfoy opened his mouth, but closed it before any words were formed. After awhile he managed, "Well, I like to think I do."

Harry grinned, widely. "Brilliant! I'm sure you know how letters work then!"

"Letters?" Mr. Malfoy repeated and his eyes fell onto the envelope that was still clutched in Harry's hands. Comprehension flashed over his face, shadowed by confusion, and he nodded. "I have received my fair share of them and sent just as many."

The house elf reappeared with a large ceramic teapot, a tray of cups and a biscuit bowl. Her thin arms shook, when she placed the tray carefully onto the desk and poured tea into two of the cups. She seemed even more nervous than usually. The china cups clattered against each other and the pot seemed too heavy for her to hold up, as her whole body trembled with the effort. But she managed in the end, before looked around and Harry nodded at her. With a quick bow and a silent squeak, the elf disappeared again.

Mr. Malfoy pulled out a wand from the end of his walking stick, elegantly and easily—a well practised gesture, clearly—and levitated one tea cup over to himself. Harry was too distracted to think about tea, but he grabbed a biscuit which he proceeded to munch down with two large bites. It was as good as he remembered, these chocolate chips were his favourite. The Dark Lord would have a fit when he found out, but right now Harry didn't care, he had more important matters on his mind.

"Well?" Harry prompted, impatiently, and waved the envelope in the air. "What do I do with it?"

Mr. Malfoy huffed a little, more condescending than amused. "It would be a wise start to open it."

Harry looked down at the envelope again and run his fingertips over the yellowish parchment. It felt smooth to the touch. He turned the letter over and stared at the red signet which was marked by a lion, a raven, a snake and a badger. Harry poked the animals with his index finger, but they didn't react.

"How do I do that?" he asked, looking up again. Mr. Malfoy was observing Harry carefully, like trying to decide what to make out of him. "Do I need a spell? Or some sort of a ritual?" Harry continued, when the man didn't immediately answer.

"That won't be necessary," Mr. Malfoy replied. "I would use a knife myself, but if you wish, you may simply tear it open."

Harry looked down at the letter and set to work, wondering where he was supposed to rip.

"Perhaps you could answer a few questions of mine, _Harry_?" Mr. Malfoy's voice cut through Harry's concentration.

Harry wasn't sure what it was, but something about the way Mr. Malfoy pronounced his name made Harry feel slightly angry. Like there was something wrong with the name, like it wasn't good enough, or somehow unsatisfying. Harry looked up long enough to frown at the man, before returned to the task at hand.

"I might," Harry replied and gripped carefully one corner of the envelope.

"I assume, you live here with the Dark Lord?" the man asked with an almost casual tone which made Harry look up from his task again. The tone sit poorly with the general appearance of the man, and especially it clashed with the intent look on his face.

"Yes," Harry replied curtly. He gripped he envelope tighter and tore it carefully open along one edge. Then he paused for a while and waited, but nothing seemed to happen. Harry let out a small relieved sigh and peered into the envelope.

"For how long?" Mr. Malfoy's voice cut the silence of the study again.

"Oh, as long as I can remember," Harry replied, unconcerned, as he pulled out a few neatly folded sheets of parchment. "He's just always been around. And Nagini, too. Are you trying to interrogate me? You should probably know that he has never told me anything really important," Harry told and looked up, suddenly interested. "Are you a spy? Is that why you're asking? How did you get through the wards, if you're one of _them_?"

Mr. Malfoy stared at him indignantly with his pale eyes and a corner of his mouth ticked downwards. "My loyalties lie _firmly_ with the Dark Lord."

"Oh," Harry allowed a smile, "That's very nice of you."

Harry gently folded open the two-piece letter he was holding and read the first few lines. Then he started over and read the lines again. And for a third time. The words stubbornly remained the same and the green ink glared at Harry smugly and obnoxiously from the parchment. Slowly, Harry let his hands lower and looked over the edge of the letter at Mr. Malfoy who was cautiously sipping his tea.

"He's sending me off to a _school_!" Harry exclaimed, disbelief raising his voice by an octave. He shook the letter viciously in the air, as if trying to force the words off the paper. "I can't believe this!"

Mr. Malfoy merely quirked an eyebrow at the display and hummed thoughtfully. "Yes, I thought it might be your Hogwarts letter. Congratulations are probably in order."

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,_ the letter proclaimed, and spoke as if it were a great honour to have been chosen as a student. The familiar name didn't make Harry feel any better and he didn't feel particularly honoured, either.

"Congratulations? When he's trying to get rid of me?" Harry asked loudly. The words came out oddly shaken. There was a thick lump forming in his throat, something that tasted uncomfortably like fear and despair. The day had come then, as he had always suspected it would one day. The Dark Lord had got enough of him and had decided to send him away for good. Harry clutched the letter and swallowed his bitter tears, unwilling to let them escape in front of a stranger.

Leave the Manor? Leave Nagini and the Dark Lord and go by himself? How was he supposed to do that? How could he _live_ like that? And most of all why should he? Harry tried to understand, tried to comprehend the reasons and consequences, but all rationality was overshadowed by all-consuming _fear_ that rose from somewhere within and chilled at his bones and heart.

"I don't like this at all," Harry mumbled and glared at the envelope, irritably.

"Neither do I. What is the meaning of _this_?" a familiar, angry, voice asked nearby and Harry's head snapped up and a small relieved smile flashed across his face. The Dark Lord stood there by the door and looked as imposing as ever, mildly ragged perhaps and not quite as neatly attired as usually, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. There was a slightly annoyed look on his face, as he took in the scene before him and the red eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Mr. Malfoy stood up quickly in one smooth motion and bowed low. "My lord."

Before he could reply to the question the Dark Lord had issued, however, Harry hopped down from his chair, marched over to the Dark Lord and started to push him towards the desk and the chair behind it.

"I got this letter! One that... well, I think you know already. Hogwarts, it said," Harry told, while he pushed the Dark Lord down onto the chair and poured the man a generous cup of tea which then helpfully shoved into his hands. The Dark Lord glanced down at his cup and frowned a little, but the lack of vocal protests told Harry that, in his own quirky way, the man appreciated the gesture. Harry suppressed a little smile.

Harry glanced at Mr. Malfoy. "I don't really know what _he_ is doing here, but he came some time ago looking for you and I offered him tea. And biscuits. Just to be polite."

"Is that so?" the Dark Lord replied vaguely and tasted the tea Harry had offered him. "Lucius?"

"I am afraid I come here as a bearer of bad news, my lord," Mr. Malfoy responded smoothly, a perfectly honed apologetic expression taking over his face. A small and horrifyingly sardonic smirk flashed across the Dark Lord's face quick as lightning.

"Don't you ever," he mumbled more to himself than to anyone else. His expression was grave and threatening again when he asked, "What is it then?"

"An urgent and rather alarming message was delivered to my wife early this morning. Concerning her sister, my lord," Mr. Malfoy began. "Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange were captured by the aurors last night. Only hours later Rabastan ran straight into an ambush, when he tried to investigate what had happened, after the two failed to return."

The Dark Lord didn't reply immediately, merely sat there with an expressionless, frozen mask on his face. He slowly set down the tea cup he was holding and spoke with a level voice, "Where?"

Mr. Malfoy seemed to flinch under the question, as if it was exactly the one thing he had hoped the Dark Lord would not ask. "A muggle village, a few hundred miles to north from London. It appears that Bellatrix had somewhere gained information that her muggle-loving sister, Andromeda Tonks, I believe her name now is, would be there that evening, visiting relatives of her mudblood husband. Her thirst for revenge appears to have overridden what little sanity she has left," Mr. Malfoy explained reluctantly.

Fury thinned the Dark Lord's lips into a disapproving line. He rose slowly and stepped to the window, rigid and threatening, like only he could be. Harry momentarily wondered if he should leave now, while the fragile façade of calm still prevailed. He didn't.

"Their obsessive and _reckless_ ," the Dark Lord spat out the word like it had burned on his tongue for quite a while now, "behaviour has become a palpable risk. A risk they clearly failed to acknowledge. There is nothing we can do for them now. After acquiring such high-class captives, the Ministry will make sure that the security levels of Azkaban are appropriately raised. We will wait and hope there is enough left of them when the time is right," the Dark Lord said, cold and aloof. In that particular moment he obviously didn't care one way or another what would come of his followers.

Mr. Malfoy cleared his throat slightly and apparently felt the need to say something in their—and perhaps his own—defence. "According to Narcissa, it is likely that the Order had placed surveillance on Mrs. Tonks in case of an attack. Most of the Black properties seem to have passed onto her after the imprisonment of Sirius Black and the fugitive status given to Bellatrix. Her. . . _value_. . . in the eyes of the Order has been faced by a most unexpected increase," Mr. Malfoy told. "At this very moment Narcissa is at the Ministry, gathering any possible information on what happened and what will follow."

The Dark Lord seemed to quickly think it over, eyes narrowing and his spidery hand lazily caressing the smooth wood of his wand. It was a tick that Harry knew the Dark Lord didn't even realise he possessed. Clearly he was the only one with the knowledge on the Dark Lord's strange mannerism, since Mr. Malfoy seemed to grow more restless as the silence stretched, visibly expecting a violent outburst. Harry had to bite his tongue in order not to intervene and say something to ease the tension. He knew that right now his input was not needed or wanted.

"Good," the Dark Lord finally decided and nodded barely notably. "I trust that Narcissa has enough control over herself to maintain a suitable level of detachment. There can be no questions about her loyalties in this war, not this soon after Bellatrix's imprisonment." The Dark Lord raised a dark eyebrow significantly, indicating that it was an order rather than a mere statement.

Mr. Malfoy executed a strange half bow and looked immensely relieved beneath the stiff mask of indifference. Harry could sympathise with him. He, too, had been waiting for some kind of a reaction, a tantrum or _anything_ at all to express the displeasure the Dark Lord must have been feeling. Must have been the quick mouthful of tea that made him so calm and tranquil.

Harry took advantage of the momentarily serene atmosphere and reminded, "So, this letter I got..."

Red eyes fell on him heavy and unsympathetic.

"I won't go, you know. To Hogwarts," Harry continued when he received no vocal response.

The Dark Lord didn't let it show that he had even heard, when turned towards Mr. Malfoy again.

"Leave," he ordered simply, "And inform Narcissa that I expect her to report directly to me with all the necessary information."

"Very well, my lord," Mr. Malfoy agreed, almost pleasantly now that the tension in the room had mostly dissipated. He bowed again and walked briskly to the door.

"Oh, and Lucius?" the Dark Lord called out, before the blond man managed to execute his escape. "You have a son, don't you?"

Harry watched how Mr. Malfoy stiffened and froze motionless where he stood. Startled wariness lurked in his eyes, as he turned back to the Dark Lord, and a nervous quiver tightened his expression. How curious, Harry observed, that this was the first time the man displayed actual alarm, despite the fact that he had previously been mere seconds away from being brutally cursed by the Dark Lord.

"Yes, my lord," he replied shortly and a careful question rang loud in the words.

"He will be entering Hogwarts this year, won't he?"

"He. . . Yes, he will."

"Excellent," the Dark Lord nodded satisfied, whilst glanced at Harry from the corner of his eye; a look that bode no well to Harry's well-being. "When you go to Diagon Alley for his school gear, take him with you." The Dark Lord waved an uninterested hand towards Harry.

"Excuse me?" slipped from Mr. Malfoy, simultaneously with Harry's loud screech of, "No way!"

The Dark Lord gave them both an unimpressed look which had Mr. Malfoy quickly grooming his disbelief into a more neutral look, but did very little to Harry's defiant stare.

"I won't got with _him_!" Harry exclaimed and crossed his arms across his chest. "I mean, how do you know you can trust him? What if he kidnaps me? Or, or murders me? What will you do then?"

"Besides rejoice, you mean?" the Dark Lord crumbled under his breath, before turned to Mr. Malfoy again. His expression was grim when he spoke.

"I will make this exceptionally clear, Lucius. Should Harry end up kidnapped, murdered or otherwise harmed in your presence, I will hold you personally responsible. As a punishment I will flay your wife, present your son as a gift to Fenrir Greyback and torture you into a mindless, drooling mess before sending you straight to the Auror Department with a Dark Mark branded across your face. I am certain they will grant you the Kiss out of the goodness of their hearts, even though you will be incapable of confessing to anything incriminating by then," the Dark Lord spoke in calm even tone, leaving no doubt that he meant every word. "Do I make myself clear?"

For a moment it looked like Malfoy is already incapable of saying anything, without the Dark Lord having to go through with any of his threats. He floundered for a moment before forced out a curt, "Immensely, my lord."

"Excellent. You may go now," the Dark Lord replied, not even bothering to look how Mr. Malfoy bowed briefly and slipped out of the room, letting the door close behind him silently. Harry judged it was a wise move on Mr. Malfoy's part to escape before the Dark Lord could spring more unexpected and insane demands on him. Although, it also meant that Harry was now left alone to fend off the Dark Lord's mad ideas.

The Dark Lord turned to stare at Harry, his serious expression unwavering. "Satisfied?"

There was a subtle warning hidden in the red eyes, impossible for Harry to ignore. He bit down to his lower lip, chewed for a moment and weighted his options. There weren't many. Harry pursed his lips and tapped his foot to express his displeasure.

"No. I thought I could go with you when I finally get to visit Diagon Alley," he said finally, petulantly.

The Dark Lord didn't dignify the words with a proper reply, but instead smothered Harry with a disbelieving glare. Disappointment and defeat stung painfully in Harry's heart, but he knew he was fighting a lost battle. The Dark Lord could out-stubborn him any day. Although, it didn't mean that Harry couldn't try.

"Besides, it won't even be necessary. I won't be attending Hogwarts anyway, so why would I need _school gear_?" Harry asked and let a slight grimace onto his face at the last words. "This is stupid! I could just stay here and read and learn that way and—"

"Your attendance is essential," the Dark Lord interrupted, "And not negotiable."

"But I—"

One look from the Dark Lord choked the feeble protest Harry had tried to muster up. There was no outright anger or irritation in his expression, nor a trace of the malice he sometimes displayed so openly. The Dark Lord remained coldly composed, uncaring and somehow frozen. And that was what worried Harry. It almost felt like he was already being cast away, slowly pushed aside with simple indifference. Indifference was a mighty weapon in the hands of the Dark Lord and he wielded it with horrifying efficiency. A weapon Harry could not defend himself against.

Harry nodded once. A gesture of compliance that burned his eyes bitterly.

The Dark Lord turned away, unmoved.

"Now leave," he said simply. And Harry left.

But not before he dug deep into his pockets, summoned a great handful of dirty and grimy gnome skulls which he then proceeded to pour into the still-waiting pot of tea. The expression of absolute fuming fury rushed onto the Dark Lord's face faster than Harry's eyes could follow, but Harry didn't stay to watch. He was running halfway down the corridor by the time the incredulous howl of rage reached his ears. And all he could do was marvel at his own daring and stupidity, as a purple spell zoomed past him, just inched from his head, just before he dodged behind a corner.

Somehow, Harry felt suddenly a lot better.

…o0o…

The atmosphere at the Manor reminded tense for days afterwards.

The Dark Lord stalked the halls of the Manor wild, fierce, and deadly, whilst Harry faded in the deepest of lurking darkness and glowered at everything and nothing. It was a silent war; no word passing, no look exchanged. Fire and shadow clashed, both viciously determined, but neither doing any actual damage to the other. The house elves grew twitchy as the time passed and stayed mostly out of sight. The Death Eaters who dropped by were tense and clearly nervous, bowing unusually low before their master and avoiding Harry's glowing green glare more carefully than ever before.

Harry knew it was mostly just a severe case of misunderstanding that was causing the current rift. Harry didn't know why it was so important that he left for Hogwarts and the Dark Lord couldn't understand why Harry was so vehemently against the idea. On one hand, Harry would have been more than willing to discuss the issue, just to make the tension between them dissipate some, but on the other hand, he knew that the Dark Lord would be deaf to anything Harry had to say. Things had been that way as long as Harry could recall.

And just as always, Harry was the first to give in.

Six days after the day the letter had arrived, Harry sought out the Dark Lord and found the man in the potion lab, where he was working on something that seemed yellowish slime and smelled long dead and rotten. Harry didn't dare to approach directly, not when there was a neat selection of sharp instruments set on the table, so he drifted slowly and silently closer and stopped by the door to observe cautiously. The Dark Lord didn't notice him or simply ignored him.

Harry let the silence stand for a while, screaming and ear-splitting. It felt good somehow. Almost like Harry had brought it with him and was in charge of it, wielding all of its crushing power against the Dark Lord. The momentary illusion of victory passed as quick as it had appeared—this was _the_ _Dark Lord_ he was talking about here—and suddenly Harry couldn't stand the silence a second longer.

"I—I'm sorry," Harry bit out reluctantly, then quickly added, "Not sorry that I argued, but sorry that I didn't listen it through." Then the only thing he could do was wait and see how things would fold.

The Dark Lord didn't react at first, merely scrutinized closely the yellowish pile slime of that was slowly turning greener. Then the man straightened his back and turned slowly towards Harry, before the crimson eyes drilled deep into Harry's very soul and _judged_.

"There are times when I wonder what I did wrong," the man said and something small and important died a little within Harry's chest. He didn't let it show on his face, just bit his teeth together and did what little he could; bore it.

He had known this would happen. Disappointment, regret... all the little things that the Dark Lord wielded against Harry almost as efficiently as he wielded indifference. Every time it was like a cold knife, drawing deep into Harry and paring out all the negative aspects of him, all the faults and flaws the Dark Lord disliked. It was frightfully effective. Each time it left Harry frightened and ashamed of whatever he had done and very nearly desperate to improve. It was uncomfortable but necessary, Harry knew.

"I have given you so much and tried so hard," the Dark Lord continued almost sorrowfully and stepped closer. Harry withdrew a little, not visibly, since the man would not have liked that, but something within him closed protectively. When the Dark Lord spoke, it was soft as silk and sharp as the cutting curse at the same time. "This is the only thing I ask of you, Harry. The only thing."

"You want me to leave and go to Hogwarts," Harry mumbled, wanting to provide something into this conversation that was quickly turning into a monologue.

" _Exactly_. It should be easy enough, even enjoyable for you once you get used to the idea. But what do you do, hm? You argue. You _refuse_ out right the change I have presented you with," the Dark Lord half-whispered and Harry couldn't remember the last time he was so terrified of mere words. He wasn't even sure where the fear came from or what had merited it. It just _was_.

By now, the electric smell of angry magic which always surrounded the Dark Lord like an aura had mixed with the stench of death and rot and it all poured in when Harry heaved a deep breath to steady himself.

He confessed weakly, "I'd like to stay with _you_."

He let eyes fall, so that the Dark Lord could not see his expression. The man didn't particularly like weakness.

The Dark Lord sighed, ever so slightly. "I am not sending you away," he sounded troubled when he spoke and Harry glanced up quickly. "It is vital that you understand that. I am sending you only because I need you at Hogwarts more than I need you here." The Dark Lord walked over to Harry and Harry made a conscious effort to stay put. The Dark Lord crouched down enough, so that he could grasp Harry's chin and stare down any remaining stubbornness with his fiery crimson eyes.

"But why?" Harry asked.

"I need you to be my eyes, because beyond those walls I am blind," the Dark Lord told. "I know you will not disappoint me. You are one of the very few people I can completely place my trust upon." The Dark Lord sounded solemn, his expression was grave, nearly grim. A pale hand reached out, hesitated, and settled cautiously onto Harry's thin shoulder. He looked at Harry steadily and the whole world swirled wildly around that one fleeting second of a time.

Harry didn't believe a word of it. He knew the man far too well to fall into one of his artfully woven lies. This was exactly how the Dark Lord lured his prey to comply, how he made people agree and how he danced them into obedience with nothing but words. One pretty word here, another complement there, and all wrapped in feigned respect or approval, and people fell at the Dark Lord’s feet like the he had just given them the world on a golden platter. Harry knew this. _Oh how he knew it._ Yet, he nodded silently, because it was a beautiful thought, this trust he had been given. His heart swelled and warmed, before slowly died a little.

Harry was weak like that. Especially when the weakness felt almost like strength, when the Dark Lord offered him a narrow, tight-lipped, smile in return.


	3. A Brethren of Two

Early in the morning of July 31st, the Dark Lord passed Harry a silver pocket watch over the breakfast table.

It was a beautiful device, goblin-made and clearly expensive. It had five hands which marked hours, minutes and seconds, as well as days and full moons of each month. The silver cover held engraved runes which Harry didn't understand, but which he decided to study more closely later on when he had the time. The clock emitted a soft and lulling ticking noise which Harry could feel against the palm of his hand as he cradled the timepiece gently.

"Thank you. It's very nice," Harry told the Dark Lord and looked over the table at the man. The Dark Lord didn't look up from _the Daily Prophet_ he was skimming over with a bored look on his face, just nodded shortly to indicate that he had heard. "Is this a birthday present?" Harry continued out of curiosity, turning the watch in his hands and admiring the flawless craftsmanship.

The Dark Lord choked on his tea, coughed a few times and grimaced at Harry a little. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course it isn't! It's a portkey for emergency situations. Speak to it in parseltongue and it will activate and bring you back to the Manor from almost anywhere," the Dark Lord told, clearly irritated that Harry had thought the gift to be something as sentimental as a birthday present.

Harry didn't mind, but neither did he change his mind about it. The watch was given to him on his birthday and therefore it _was_ a birthday present, no matter what the Dark Lord thought. It was also the very first birthday present Harry had ever received and it made him feel surprisingly happy. He had never owned anything as fancy as this, but more importantly, it felt all the more significant, since it had been the Dark Lord who gave it to him. Harry curled his fingers tightly around the cool metal surface and pressed it against his heart; silent ticking and steady beating in flawless harmony.

"Keep it close and keep it hidden _at all times_ ," the Dark Lord ordered, giving Harry a stern look over the table. "And you will use it if an alarming situation arises. No excuses. Should anyone try to take it from you, you will use it _immediately_ , no matter what the situation is."

Harry nodded obediently and slipped the watch into the safety of his robe pocket. It sounded useful, this emergency portkey, but one question danced in the front of his mind, "Why are you giving this to me now? Sure, it would be handy at Hogwarts when I'm far away and..." Harry didn't manage to finish with the question when the answer already dawned to him.

He sighed. "I'll be going to Diagon Alley today, won't I?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon."

"How soon is soon?"

Harry received a sharp glare, but he refused to give up.

"With the Malfoys?"

"That was agreed upon."

"Hmph. I didn't particularly like Mr. Malfoy," Harry confessed and chewed a croissant thoughtfully. "He's so... so... Well, I don't think there's anything _real_ about him. His expressions are all fake, like masks he pulls on when he needs one, and he weighs his words so carefully that it's impossible to tell what he's thinking. Heck, he probably even dyes his hair!"

The Dark Lord was giving Harry a strange look across the table, mouth set in thin line and eyebrows drawn together in thought. "What _do_ you believe he was thinking?"

Harry blinked. "I, um, I don't know. But I... Well, I think he was scared. Of you, of course, not me. But it doesn't make much sense, does it? Since he's your follower and everything. It was probably respect. And he was confused by me and who I was. He asked a few weird questions and tried to snoop," Harry told as he thought back to his short meeting with Mr. Malfoy. "Oh, but don't worry! I didn't tell him anything and he said that... how did it go... that 'his loyalty lays firmly with the Dark Lord'."

"And you believed him?" the Dark Lord asked, an eyebrow quirking mockingly.

"He lied?"

"Not necessarily. But as you said, he is afraid and always weighs his words carefully," the Dark Lord reminded. "It's best if you do not to trust him. Or better yet, trust no one. It will solve many problems for you."

"I trust you," Harry replied immediately, without thinking.

The Dark Lord's smile was all teeth. "And that, child, is your first mistake."

Harry lowered his gaze to his breakfast and, in the privacy of his own mind, disagreed.

…o0o…

Diagon Alley was... not what Harry had expected.

It was a narrow, cobbled street, twisting and turning out of sight and surrounded by buildings stacked closely together. There were wand and robe shops side by side with shops that sold cauldrons, telescopes and strange instruments Harry was not familiar with. Apothecaries, books shops and sweet and joke shops all begged for his attention. The small free spaces between the shops were taken over by makeshift stalls; tabletops bending under the weight of the items piled on them. Harry was quickly convinced that _anything_ could be bought here, if one knew where to look. It was wonderful and one of the most fascinating places Harry had ever seen, and yet, it _wasn't_.

Squeezed between an apothecary and a second-hand robe shop was a smoking ruin of something, utterly wrecked and about to crumple. A bit further down the Alley a reconstruction work was halfway done, workers with grim expressions almost reluctantly magicking together a collapsed shingle roof. The whole alley had a tired look to it; walls and roofs slightly askew and wearily leaning one way or another. Everything looked uncared for, worn out and shaken.

The impression was only supported by the people hurrying up and down the street.

Every witch and wizard hid under dark, heavy, robes, their faces covered with raised hoods. They hurried onwards, steps long and focused, eyes forward and unwavering. They were _scared_ , Harry realized with astonishment. And not just scared, but terrified out of their silly little minds. They huddled together in large groups, families and friends drawn into herds for what little protection they could offer each other. They were here because they had to, running their business with feverish urgency just to get away as soon as possible.

Harry frowned at the sight and stole a quick glance at his companions. Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy both wore perfect masks of serenity, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with the scene stretching before them. Their son—Draco, Harry believed his name was—looked around with mixture of boredom and mild scorn of his face. It was obvious that he had been to Diagon Alley before and Harry was left entirely alone with his disappointed thoughts.

Harry had long ago learned that, when in doubt, the wisest thing to do was to watch and observe. Therefore, he silently followed after the Mafloys from shop to shop, bought his cauldron and books and a telescope, whilst all the while taking in every little detail that was etched into the scenery surrounding him.

He heard every little whisper that passed hushed from lips to lips; whispers full of war, danger, and Light and Dark. He understood that the fear wasn't just a gloss over everything. It was several decades’ worth of worry and uncertainty that had dug deep into the people and the magical society itself. It was like poison, barely noticeable but definitely destructive and unstoppable.

Harry noticed the missing leg of the man keeping the apothecary and saw the scar tissue crisscrossing the face of a woman who was buying a book on house warding from _Flourish and Blotts._ He observed how officially robed wizards—aurors, he later learned—patrolled the streets in watchful pairs, keeping a suspicious eye on everyone and everything. He also heard a broken, haggard, wreck of a man scream vile insults at the aurors and accuse them of things they might or might not have done, before he was forcefully dragged away.

Two long lists of names were attached onto a large notice boards just outside the Gringotts Wizarding Bank. One of them was titled 'Confirmed Missing' and the other one 'Confirmed Dead'. A herd of people was gathered in front of them. They stood in a grim half circle, reading the names over and over, either breaking down in tears or leaving with a barely notable relief lifting their shoulders.

Harry reluctantly acknowledged that perhaps there was a valid reason behind the fear. He didn't yet understand what it could be and at this point he wasn't sure he wanted to.

…o0o…

Mrs. Malfoy was a tall, beautiful, woman with a notable tendency to bossiness.

She steered them through their little shopping trip with easy eloquence and determination, systematically and in perfect order. Harry noted with fascination that her son clearly didn't know any way to oppose her and almost meekly submitted to her will, whilst Mr. Malfoy, who occasionally _tried_ to protest, was gently and subtly coaxed to go along with Mrs. Malfoy's little whims, so that in the end he probably thought he had gotten his word through.

Mrs. Malfoy was a force of nature, and Harry himself found out quickly that he neither could bring himself to argue with her. Therefore, he had quickly ended up with a set of emerald-green quills, because apparently "they matched the colour of his eyes so eyes so perfectly", and a ridiculous _hair potion_ from the apothecary because apparently it was supposed to "help him to tame that impossible hair". Harry wasn't sure if he liked Mrs. Malfoy or if he was honestly terrified of her.

For their school uniforms, she guided them into a shop that went by the name of _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions_.

They were greeted by Madam Malkin herself, an elderly witch who had a gentle, patient smile and wrinkles of laughter at the corners of her eyes. She exchanged a few quick words with Mrs. Malfoy, mostly complementing her lavish, sapphire-blue robes, before she ushered both Harry and Draco to the back of the shop to have their school robes fitted.

It was the first time when Harry was left alone with Malfoy Jr. without his parents’ restrictive presence. Harry had somewhat prepared for the moment, since he had noticed the boy glance at him several times throughout the day, curious and calculative at the same time. It was obvious that the boy was impatient to have his thirst for knowledge sated, but had been hesitant to act on it in the presence of his parents. Now that they were out of the way, there was very little that could hold him back, it turned out.

"I'm Draco, by the way," the Malfoy boy introduced himself, when they stood on low stools, having their robes fitted and touched up by a few enthusiastic shop assistants.

Harry nodded. "I know." Then it dawned to him that it could be considered quite rude and quickly added, "I'm Harry."

"I know," Draco Malfoy tossed Harry's own words back at him, as a slight drawl entered his voice. "So, what house do you think you'll be sorted into, _Harry_ ," the boy asked then and sounded so much like his father that Harry had to suppress a small snort.

"I don't really care. Everything's fine with me," Harry replied, but silently wondered if the Dark Lord agreed with him. It seemed unlikely that the man would care about such a petty matter as to which house Harry was sorted into, but one never knew with the Dark Lord. Harry should probably ask some time if the man had any preferences. After all, with the Dark Lord, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Draco huffed disdainfully at Harry's reply. "Right. Well, I know I'll be sorted into Slytherin. It's something of a family tradition."

"Cunning and ambition," Harry recalled what he had read about the Slytherin house and offered a small smile as a peace-offering. He didn't think that Draco liked him all that much, but then again, the feeling was more or less mutual.

"Exactly," Draco nodded and gazed Harry thoughtfully. "Maybe you aren't so bad after all. Do you like Quidditch?"

Harry wondered why the other boy was asking him all these questions. Maybe to lull him into a sense of security while trying to make him reveal something actually important? Harry decided to keep his replies as vague and carefully as possible.

"I'm not sure. I have never played," he told. He had never quite understood the fascination with the wizarding sport. It seemed a bit pointless to fly around in the air just tossing, hitting, finding and dodging balls of all sizes.

"Hmph," Draco commented and his opinion about Harry seemed to go down a notch. Then he's attention was momentarily diverted, as the witch who had been fitting his robes accidentally picked him with a pin, and Draco spent a moment barking insults at her.

When his attention returned to Harry, he was observing Harry with his eyes narrow and calculative. "Why are you here with us? Where are your parents?" he asked, almost hostile for no apparent reason.

Harry hesitated for a very brief moment, before replied honestly, "They're dead."

This seemed to take Draco by surprise. "Oh, I didn't know that."

"Yes, I noticed," Harry replied curtly and felt himself growing more and more irritated with the conversation by the minute. There was something about Draco's bored drawl and condescending attitude that made Harry feel increasingly uncomfortable. Draco clearly noticed the change in Harry's mood as well and seemed strangely pleased by it, judging by the small smirk appearing on his narrow lips.

"They were like _us_ , weren't they, though?" Draco asked next, almost casually, but his intent expression betrayed the significance behind the words. At first Harry didn't grasp his meaning at all, but the sharp inhale from the assistant seamstress and the disapproving look that followed were rather good hints.

"Magical folk, you mean?" Harry asked, his tone sharper than he had meant. "Since I know absolutely nothing about them, I can hardly tell, now can I? They have been dead for almost as long as I've been alive."

Harry had never given much thought to his long-dead parents, since they had always been just faceless shades, just at the edge of his memory. Occasionally he would wonder what kind of people they had been, but that was about it. They weren't _important_. Harry didn't know anything about them. And since he didn't remember them at all, he didn't particularly feel like he was missing out on something. He did have the Dark Lord, after all, and Harry was quite sure he wouldn't trade him for all the parents in the world.

However, it did seem very strange how overly curious about Harry's parentage Draco was. It was almost as if the boy expected the knowledge about Harry's parents to reveal some big, dirty secret about Harry himself. But since _that_ was a silly idea, Harry ignored the possibility with a small mental shrug.

Draco didn't seem to share his sentiments, though, since he was staring at Harry suspiciously, as if his answer had just been the worst one possible.

"What's your surname then?" he asked then, unwilling to let the issue of Harry's family drop.

Harry huffed, "None of your business, really."

Then, to Harry's great relief, Madam Malkin, who had been working on his robes, declared that she was done, and Harry hopped down from the stool. He made a quick escape to the checkout counter and left the silently fuming Malfoy Jr. to take his fury out on the poor shop assistant.

Draco was still shooting cold looks at Harry when they left the shop and stepped into the bustling alley. Harry ignored him easily.

Mrs. Malfoy was skimming over Draco's Hogwarts letter. "There are only a few things left on your list, so I think we sh—"

A loud explosion from a few buildings north from them shattered every window in the quarter. The sound drowned out the rest of Mrs. Malfoy's sentence and left ears ringing. A few ear-splitting screams and lots of yelling followed immediately after, and Harry swirled towards the ruckus, searching for the source. Dark smoke rose from an old residence building and flames ate unnaturally quickly up the walls and within seconds the whole building was ablaze.

"What—" Harry managed, before iron fingers grasped his shoulder and he was hauled into the opposite direction. Harry stared wide-eyed how the raising smoke painted the sky black and how frantic people tried to get as far away as humanly possible, while stumbling into each other in their blind panic. A rush of blood roared in Harry's ears, almost drowning out the increasing yelling.

"I thought there was supposed to be no attacks today," Harry could hear Mrs. Malfoy hissing to her husband in a quiet voice. There was no fear in her tone, just sharp displeasure at how things had turned out.

"Probably someone gone rogue," Mr. Malfoy replied, just as quietly. His tone was stiff and expression alert, but he didn't seem particularly concerned. "They are probably working alone, but right now this is not the best place to be."

At first Harry didn't understand what they were talking about or why they were reacting so calmly to the unexpected disarray. But then, mostly by accident, Harry caught a quick flash of black robes and a golden mask further away, before the quick vision disappeared into the sea of panicked people.

His heart froze in his chest and he _knew_.

_Death Eaters_.

Death Eaters were the source of this choking fear in the air. They were the faceless danger that seemed to hide in the each step and each expression of these ordinary witches and wizards. They were the War, Harry had overheard people whisper about to each other in hushed tones in shops and dark alleyways. Suddenly, it was so painfully obvious. The very purpose of the Death Eaters dawned to Harry in those few fleeting seconds that passed before his very eyes.

They were an army. _The Dark Lord's army_. And army he was using to fight against...against _what_? The wizarding world? The mere thought was mad, absolutely ludicrous.

One thing Harry knew for sure was that the Dark Lord harboured unhindered appreciation for anything magical. He had told so Harry himself. The Dark Lord had spent hours lost in thought, as he had described in detail all the little magical things which he admired and which still seemed to leave him in silent awe. To the Dark Lord, magic was _everything_. He lived and breathed it with his every living day. He surrounded himself with magic and studied it with utmost interest. The Dark Lord _was_ magic. Magic sizzled around him, restless and strong, and seemed to pulsate out of him with his every spoken word. Anyone could feel it when in the same room with them man.

And then there was the wizarding community which was the very heart of magic. It had been created around it and now they lived in an odd symbiosis where the magic supported the people and the people supported the magic. There was no witch nor wizard who did not love magic with every fibre of their being. It was simply a _part_ of them, like a leg or an arm. To every magical being magic was just as vital as it was to the Dark Lord.

Therefore, it was strange... no, _impossible_ that the Dark Lord would have turned against that. Harry might have still somehow understood, if the Dark Lord had waged his war against _muggles_ , but the idea of a war against other wizards and witches was too mind-boggling for Harry to even being to comprehend.

Everything was wrong, upside down and confusing. Nothing made _sense_.

It was not supposed to be like this. The _world_ was not supposed to be like this. The all-consuming chaos and the thick taste of fear and desperation in the air were not what Harry had expected. It was supposed to be amazing, this magical world he was blessed to be part of. This world that surrounded him now was half dead already, void of true magic and hope.

Suddenly he wanted to be alone, away from the Malfoys and far away from the dread that dwelled in Diagon Alley. He needed to _think_. He needed to organize the new data he had gathered and reformulate his opinions and expectations. Nothing was like Harry had first thought, and now he needed to _understand_ , because if he didn't he'd slowly go mad.

Therefore, Harry froze motionless and let the chaos swallow up his presence, slowly fading from the attention of the people nearby, until he simply wasn't there anymore. He slipped away in silence and no one even noticed him gone.

Harry ran, ran like he had never ran before.

…o0o…

When he finally stopped, it was in front of a dirty shop window.

He stood there, grasping the windowsill and shaking from head to toe, as he tried to catch his breath. Through the window, he stared at the single wand laid out on a purple velvet cushion. A quick glance confirmed what Harry already suspected: over the door in peeling golden letters read, _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._ Harry didn't hesitate, but grasped the handle and slipped in through the door. If there was something he needed—no, something he _wanted_ —it was a wand. Something concrete to hold against this... this utter _mess_.

A bell above the door _ching_ ed once, when Harry stepped in.

There was no one in sight and Harry took an unhurried look around, taking in the shelves and high stacks full of wand boxes. It was very silent, all sounds muffled by a layer of old dust. The whole shop smelled of time and past years. It was an entirely separate world from the one behind the door, a very calming world, and Harry felt himself relax bit by bit. The tension and unease he had been feeling all day left his body in a huff of breath and he half collapsed onto a chair by the door.

Harry's hands shook when he stared down at them and the shaking wouldn't stop no matter how he glared at them. It was a pathetic display of weakness, even in Harry's own opinion. Furthermore, there was absolutely no reason for it. Harry hadn't been at danger himself and he hadn't been afraid for even a second. He was in control of himself completely and yet his body disagreed. His legs felt weak and there was a slight ringing in his ears. His heart pounded against his ribs, restless like a caged bird. And his hands just _wouldn't stop shaking_.

It was ridiculous. Pointless. And yet Harry was half tempted to reach for the pocket watch hidden in his robes—his emergency portkey—and leave this place behind right now. Even the quick thought given to the Dark Lord's fury if he did that wasn't enough to drive the temptation away. Harry wanted to go home and _stay_ there for the undetermined eternity.

The sound of nearing steps shook Harry from his thoughts and soon an old, white-haired and wrinkly man appeared from between the shelves. Harry quickly got up from the chair, feeling irrationally guilty.

"Ah, my, my, Mr. Potter," the old man, who could be no one else than Mr. Ollivander himself, said in greeting and smiled a strange mysterious smile. "What an unexpectedly expected surprise."

Harry's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits and his left hand snuck into his robe pocket where it curled around the silver pocket watch. "How do you know who I am?"

Mr. Ollivander's genial smile didn't waver. "You look remarkably like your father and your eyes are not unlike your mother's. Although, I did wonder for moment if I was mistaken after all... considering the circumstances. I am rather glad you saw it fit to confirm my suspicion."

It was strange for sure, but Harry had been expecting worse. If nothing else, he had been waiting for something a bit more... mysterious. The whole shop had eerie feeling to it and Mr. Ollivander himself was a strange old fellow. But apparently nothing magical was involved, just pointless genetic relations and a bit of logical thinking. Harry felt unreasonably disappointed. He discreetly released his hold on the portkey.

"I assume you are here for a wand, Mr. Potter?" Mr. Ollivander asked then, eyeing Harry like a new specimen about to be examined.

Harry blinked and cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose so. I came in because yours was the first door I saw when I needed one, but I guess I could buy my wand, too," Harry told honestly.

"Excellent, excellent," Mr. Ollivander commented genially and dug out a measure tape from somewhere. He took a few measures, quickly and precisely, before disappeared behind the shelves again. He reappeared soon along with a few wand boxes.

"I remember each and every wand I have ever sold, Mr. Potter," Mr. Ollivander told, as he opened one of the boxes and withdraw a dark-wooded wand. "Every single one. Eleven inches and mahogany for one James Potter. Good for Transfigurations, it was, quite a bit like this one." The old man passed the wand on to Harry, who accepted it without hesitation.

Harry didn't feel any different and the wand felt like a piece of wood it was in his hand. The wood was smooth, slightly cool to touch and the weigh was surprisingly comforting. Harry waved the wand experimentally, a quick flick of his wrist like he had seen spells performed hundreds of times. A stack of wand boxes nearby exploded haphazardly, clattering loudly, as it collapsed in a cloud of dust.

"Hm, no. Definitely not," Mr. Ollivander muttered and snatched the wand away with a small shake of his head. Before Harry could get over the initial shock, a new wand was already pressed into his hands.

"James Potter. . . My father?" Harry asked, partly curious, partly just out of politeness.

"Of course. I _have_ made the wands of the last few generations of Potters," Mr. Ollivander smiled and did not question. "And your mother came here as well. Lily Evans, I believe her names was. She was a muggleborn, yes, but also an absolutely delightful young witch. She was something of a tricky customer, if I recall correctly. Ten inches and swishy willow, excellent for Charms work."

Harry memorised their names carefully. Just in case that Draco cornered him again some time, of course.

In the end, Harry, too, turned out to be a tricky customer. He tried a wand after a wand, all different lengths and combinations materials. Every single one felt different from the previous ones, but all of them were just _wrong_ somehow. Harry was getting mildly worried and wondered if he was not meant to have a wand at all.

But even after ten, fifteen, and twenty wands, Mr. Ollivander hadn't lost his optimistic view. "Do not worry, Mr. Potter. A certain saying has always lived amongst those who have studied the wandlore, 'The wand. . .'"

". . .chooses the wizard," Harry finished for him and smiled a little.

Harry had run across the phrase before, a long time ago, when he had got this idea of crafting his own wand stuck in his head. He had read a few books on wandlore and afterwards imagined that he knew everything about it. He had snuck out of the Manor to collect sticks and twigs from the graveyard of Little Hangleton, where huge old trees of all species cast shadows over the graves. He had ordered the house elves to fetch him all kinds of magical things, phoenix feathers and unicorn and kelpie hair, for example. The elves had obediently—though, reluctantly—done exactly that, returning from their quests weeks later and looking ruffled and worse for wear. It was only after acquiring the necessary ingredients that Harry had realized that he had actually no idea how to get the core into the wand. That had been the mortifying end of his career as a wandmaker.

"Exactly, Mr. Potter," Mr. Ollivander confirmed with a nod. "It would seem that you're a difficult customer. I have always enjoyed a good challenge every now and then. Maybe the occasion requires something more... more..."

The wandmaker didn't finish his sentence, before disappeared between the shelves and stacks again. It took him longer to return this time and when he did he was holding only one wand box. It was a dusty and old-looking, almost like it had been waiting for its wizard for quite a while.

"I wonder..." Mr. Ollivander mumbled, looking thoughtfully at the wand box and then at Harry again. A small frown creased his brow, when he opened to box and offered the wand within almost hesitantly to Harry who accepted it curiously. "Maybe this one, yes. Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather for a core. Nice and supple."

When Harry's fingers enclosed around the wooden handle, warmth began to spread to his fingers. It ran up to his elbows and sent electric shivers down his spine, as a feeling of _rightness_ settled in. Harry drew in a small quick breath which wheezed out of him with silent words, "It's this one."

"Ah," Mr. Ollivander nodded understandingly and that small strange smile of his widened slightly. "Well, give it a go."

Harry raised the wand gently and flicked. Fiery red sparkles burst from the tip of the wand, danced in the air and died quickly, but the rush of exhilaration that the success brought lived on. Harry laughed, a small almost involuntary expression of relief and simple satisfaction.

He had waited for this day for longer than he could remember. Every _inch_ of him had always known that he was created to cast magic. He had felt it prickling just underneath his skin, so close and yet out of his grasp, utterly unattainable. Sometimes the magic had grown too impatient and had torn out of him in an act of accidental magic. Those times had been quick and unwanted remainders of what he would one day, but not quite yet, have. Especially since the magic had always calmed down eventually and withdrawn, and the gift, the offered glimmer of power and skill and brilliance, was mercilessly taken from him again. It had been frustrating beyond belief.

But not anymore. Now it was all _here_ , right at Harry's finger tips, gently channelled thought this small piece of wood. It felt... incredible, yes, but slightly frightening at the same time. Harry took a deep breath, pushing all thoughts away from his mind for the time being and turned to look at Mr. Ollivander again.

"I'll take this one," he told firmly.

"Of course, you will," Mr. Ollivander smiled. "The wand has already chosen you, Mr. Potter. It would accept no other."

"Good," Harry said and gave the wand back to the wandmaker. It was _his_ wand now, no one else would ever cast a single spell with it.

"It is curious, however. Very curious, indeed," Mr. Ollivander muttered mysteriously, as he placed Harry's wand back into its worn box and wrapped it into brown paper.

"What's curious?" Harry asked.

"I remember every wand I ever crafted and every wand I ever sold," Mr. Ollivander told, a distant look rising to his eyes. "As it happens, the phoenix who gave the feather which was used as a core for your wand, also gave another. Just one. When you first entered, I was sure I had to be mistaken, but no, I could recognize the handiwork of one of my own wands anywhere. It is very curious that _this_ wand," Mr. Ollivander offered the wrapped wand box back to Harry. "Would choose you as its master, when its brother gave you that scar."

Mr. Ollivander's strange pale eyes fastened pointedly onto the lightning bolt shaped scar on Harry's forehead. A chill ran down Harry's spine as he grasped the meaning of the words.

"The Dark Lord," Harry whispered, an overwhelming wave of awe washing over him and drowning him. "But how... I don't..." The words would not emerge, but Mr. Ollivander seemed to understand anyway, as he nodded slightly wonderingly himself.

"The world works in mysterious ways, indeed," Mr. Ollivander said. Then he offered a small strange smile. "These are interesting times we are living in, Mr. Potter, are they not? That would be seven galleons."

Harry didn't know how else to react, so he merely paid for his wand with the large gold coins.

When leaving the shop, he stopped at the door to turn around once more.

"Mr. Ollivander, you wouldn't happen to know his name? His _real_ name, I mean," Harry asked, mostly out of curiosity, but also because this old wandmaker seemed to know uncannily much about other people's business.

Mr. Ollivander shook his head ever so slightly. "I might or might not, Mr. Potter. But the fact remains that he is one of those people who are better left unnamed."

"Hm, very well," Harry answered, disappointed, but filing the information away carefully, so that he may examine its implications more closely later. "Thank you, anyway."

"Pleasure has been all mine, Mr. Potter."

Harry could feel those strange eyes follow him as he stepped out of the door. He didn't walk for long, just far enough from the wand shop, so that he was out of the range of that all-seeing gaze. Then he stopped in the shade of the looming buildings and glanced quickly around. There were few people in sight and none of them was paying any particular attention to Harry. So, with quick fingers Harry ripped the paper wrapping from around the wand box, tore the box open and curled his fingers around the wooden handle of his wand.

A sigh, mixture of relief and anxiety, left him in a huff.

Harry raised the wand to eye level and observed it keenly. It looked the same as when Harry first saw it—all smooth dark wood, light and lithe—but it felt different now, more powerful, somehow, and almost sinister in its apparent innocence. Now Harry _knew_ what it actually was, this small piece of wood: a brother wand to that of the Dark Lord's.

It seemed absurd, absolutely ridiculous, that even this small seemingly insignificant detail of his life was intimately tied to the Dark Lord. Every thread of Harry's life spun around the Dark Lord's spidery hands and should the man wish so, he could make Harry dance like a marionette. It had always been that way and would always be that way, Harry knew, but for some irrational reason he felt angry now. On some level, he had hoped that this one thing he could have all to himself. He had believed that his wand would be _his_ alone. But now the wand was forever tied to the Dark Lord's yew wand, just like Harry was tied to the Dark Lord.

A defiant thought of simply _not telling_ the Dark Lord rose unbidden into Harry's mind.

It was a dangerous thought. If the Dark Lord ever found out that Harry had kept something this significant from him, there would be hell to pay. But on the other hand, Harry somehow felt that this was _his_ secret. It was his wand, after all, it had (mostly) nothing to do with the Dark Lord.

Harry didn't make up his mind then, but left the decision open. He slipped the wand into his pocket where the silver watch already rested.

Right now he would have to get going, because the Malfoys had surely noticed him gone by now and Harry _had_ heard what the Dark Lord had threatened them with, in the case that something happened to Harry. The thought of it made Harry feel almost guilty, but since nothing hadn't actually happened to him, he was quick to push the guilt from his mind.

He started to track back the way he had come from.

…o0o…

Harry spotted the Malfoys relatively easily from the masses of the people, since their light hair stood out remarkably well from the grey dullness of the surrounding environment.

Harry slowly navigated his way closer. He spent a good while just analysing the scene before him, as he tried to judge how deep in trouble he was. Mr. Malfoy was discussing something in low but urgent voices with one of the watchmen aurors and Mrs. Malfoy had wandered a bit further away, pretending to study the display window of a shop called _Twilfitt and Tattings,_ while discreetly glancing up and down the alley with a worried look on her face. Draco stood close to his father with a look of utter annoyance branded across his face.

Well, at least they had noticed Harry gone then.

Harry tried to come up with the least painful way to spring himself onto them again, when a wild thought, a _dangerous_ thought, danced across the front of his mind—it seemed to be one of those days when thoughts like that just popped up in his mind without invitation. Harry's eyes fastened onto Draco and he formed a quick and reckless draft of a plan.

Harry was tired of it, all the confusion and the anger it brought along with it. Harry needed _answers_ , something concrete this time.

Harry knew he was not supposed to cast spells before he turned seventeen, but it was such a ridiculous rule, anyway. He could later write it off as a bit of an accidental magic that had been set of by the new wand that heightened his connection to his magic. Harry lifted the holly wand carefully and with a quick swish sent off a stinging hex. He had read about it plenty, but had never tried to actually cast it before.

It must have worked because Draco jumped almost a feet into air and whilst Harry couldn't hear it, he clearly _saw_ the following ' _oww_ '. And just like Harry had hoped, Draco turned to shoot an angry glare around, searching for the source of his discomfort. It didn't take long before he spotted Harry, wand still raised and looking directly at Draco, and his mouth opened and closed a few times when he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. Then Draco slowly lifted his other hand, clearly intending to alert his father to Harry's sudden appearance, but Harry's quick and frantic shake of head made him hesitate. Left hand still hovering in the air, Draco slowly lifted an eyebrow, demanding answers.

Harry raised his index finger to his lips, shook slowly his head and then beckoned Draco to come to him with his other hand. Draco blinked slowly, staring. Harry silently begged with all his might that curiosity would get better of Draco's common sense. In the end, he wasn't disappointed. The hovering hand lowered and Draco exchanged a few words with his father, pointing into the direction of a Quidditch gear shop not too far from the spot where Harry was standing. Apparently, Mr. Malfoy wasn't particularly interested at the moment, since he gave a sharp reply and Draco started to wander closer with a casual expression on his face.

When he got to Harry, his expression turned sour.

"Do you have any idea how mental my parents are going with you missing?" Draco asked and tsked. "Has anyone ever told you that your basic manners are appal—"

Harry cut the tirade short before it had even properly began. He shoved the boy harshly against the brick wall of the building behind them and pressed the tip of his brand new wand against the thin neck. A small horrified squeak cut the air, but Harry was quick to muffle it with his other hand.

"Tell me what you know!" he snarled with his best impression of the Dark Lord and scowled threateningly. It was surprisingly difficult, trying to appear angry when he really wasn't, but he must have succeeded somewhat, because an even more panicked expression took over Draco's face. Harry lifted his hand slightly, beckoning him Draco speak.

"Are you mad?" Draco cried out immediately after the hand was lifted. Harry replied by digging his wand deeper into his skin.

"Answer me!" he ordered and this time the impatience wasn't even feigned.

"I don't even know what you want," the boy replied, eyeing Harry nervously like expecting him to snap any second now. Clearly he thought Harry either mad or skilled enough to actually curse him. Harry decided that his little experiment was succeeding a lot better than he had even expected.

"What's his name?" Harry asked.

"Whose?" Draco asked back and the word came out as a startled squeak.

"The Dark Lord's!" Harry huffed, exasperated. He had assumed it rather obvious.

Draco's expression turned into one of absolute horror. " _What?_ I can't _say_ it!"

"You better or else. . ." Harry warned and lifted the wand pointedly.

"It's a _taboo_! The second I say it, there will be a swarm of Death Eaters trying to tear us apart!" Draco explained, so quickly that the practically stumbled over the words. Apparently fear made him lose some of his eloquence.

"Well, that's inconvenient," Harry mumbled and sighed. The Dark Lord certainly had some serious issues concerning his name. It couldn't be _that_ bad. "Well, it doesn't really matter now. I have more questions, though, and I expect honest answers. What's this war everyone speaks about?"

Draco stared at Harry like he had just sprouted another pair of ears and a tail to go with them. "You can't be serious," he said then, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, as if he was no convinced that Harry wasn't actually serious about any of this at all.

"Please, just answer the question," Harry said sharply and brought his wand just below Draco's chin. A point where he could easily blast off the boy's head... assuming Harry knew the right spell, which he didn't, and that he had any intentions of doing so, which he didn't either.

"I... I don't really know. I mean, there clearly _is_ a war between the Dark Lord and the Ministry, but I don't know when and where it started," Draco confessed and twitched slightly, discomfort clear in his expression. "I mean it has been gone for so long that I doubt anyone remembers where it began."

Harry heaved a small sigh and let his wand lower. "I'll just have to ask the Da...um... someone else then."

Draco exhaled a shaky breath and started to slide down the brick wall behind him. The motion didn't stop until he sat there on the ground and run a hand across his pointy face. His hands were shaking and there was a slight shimmer of sweat on his forehead. His expression was a strange mixture of relief, poorly hidden irritation and slight remains of fear. Harry felt a bit guilty and offered his hand to pull the other boy up.

"I wouldn't have _really_ cursed you, you know," he told sheepishly and was mildly relieved when Draco accepted the offered hand and let himself be pulled up from the dirty cobble stones. "I just... Well, I just really needed some answers." Not that he had gotten any and all he now had was just more questions.

"You could have just asked," Draco muttered. He carefully avoided looking at Harry as wiped dust from his dark robes.

"I had to make sure you told the truth," Harry answered. "I'm sorry."

Draco seemed to consider it for a while, before nodded a bit stiffly. "Accepted. But only because I'm feeling generous and because I knew you weren't really serious. You aren't very convincing at this interrogation business," he told, and the haughty drawl was back in his voice, if a bit less prominent than before. "I mean, ' _please'_? Seriously, didn't it cross your mind that a wand on my neck might have been more than enough 'please' to get me talking?"

Harry hid a small smile and nodded. "Thank you."

"You're an idiot," Draco told him, but there was no actual bite to the words. Then he shook his head despairingly, "My father is going to kill both of us." Harry greatly doubted Mr. Malfoy would dare.

They left together, walking towards the uneasy hustle of the Diagon Alley, in something that could be described as an almost companionable silence.

…o0o…

When Harry returned home that evening, he felt centuries older than he had felt in the morning.

He was tired and his bones were weary. All the things he had seen still burned behind his eyelids and the things he had heard still rang in his ears. He wanted to sleep, wanted to curl under his duvet and hide from the world he had encountered today. He wanted to forget and just _dream_ for a while.

He didn't, though.

Instead, he went to the Dark Lord, because that's what he always did.

For some unexplainable reason even now, when all Harry really wanted was peace and calm, he was still drawn to the turmoil that was the Dark Lord. He was like a half blind moth and the only fire that burned brightly enough to guide him was this Dark, dangerous, and half mad shard of a man. Maybe it was _Harry,_ who was the mad one.

When he slipped into the Dark Lord's study, the man sat behind the desk writing a letter with a small frown on his face. It suited Harry just fine. He didn't speak, but simply collapsed into the armchair in the corner. All the stubborn strength which had barely kept him going oozed out of his body. A moment passed, before the Dark Lord's quill slowed down, faltered in the air and stopped. When Harry still didn't speak, didn't even look up, the quill was slowly lowered to rest on the half-finished letter. The Dark Lord leaned back on his chair and observed.

Seconds passed and turned into minutes. When Harry finally spoke, he was too tired to be afraid of the consequences.

"Who are you?" he asked and the words fell like stones and the silence rippled like the surface of a lake.

The Dark Lord didn't answer. Harry wondered if it was because he didn't want to or because he didn't know the answer.

" _What_ are you, then?" Harry insisted, unwilling to let the topic die. Somehow it felt that he _needed_ to know the answer to these questions. He had gone years without them, yes, but right now his life depended on the knowledge. He may not understand the world, but surely he could understand this one man if he were just given the chance.

The Dark Lord seemed to hesitate. It was a brief flash of an expression, but so outrageously out of place on his face that Harry couldn't have missed it.

"I am what I am," the Dark Lord told vaguely, something strange entering his crimson eyes. "I am certain that you have seen enough to form your own opinion."

Harry almost laughed at that, but he was quick to suppress it into a small wry smile, instead. Oh, Harry had seen enough for sure. He had seen so terribly much that he didn't know anymore what was true and what was not. He had encountered so many different aspect of the Dark Lord, that all he really had, was a great collection of tiny jigsaw puzzle pieces which didn't fit together.

Harry let his smile fade and sighed. "Did you know that there's a war out there?"

The Dark Lord looked at Harry sharply, seemed to wonder, but not apologize. He never apologized for anything. Eventually, he nodded once. "I have heard of it."

"It carries your name, this war," Harry told. There was no accusation in the words: it was just a statement. His heart was steady in his chest, calm and unwavering. The anxiety he had been feeling most of the day was gone. The exhaustion was fading into simple sleepiness. Everything was... alright.

The Dark Lord looked as detached and distant as ever, but when he spoke fleeting interest shone through the words, "Does it now?"

"Mhmm," Harry hummed an affirmation. "It's whispered there, right out on the streets. The whole world is falling apart and they say it's because of you. I don't think that's what you want. I don't think this war is what you really want."

The Dark Lord gave Harry a strange look. "What is it that I want then?"

"I don't know," Harry confessed. He sighed a little. "Sometimes I wish I did, but I think I'm better off not knowing."

The Dark Lord had nothing to say to that. He stared at Harry intently for a while and, for the first time ever, Harry didn't find that look unnerving but strangely soothing.

"Do you understand now, why you have to do all of this?" the Dark Lord asked suddenly. He picked up his wand and swirled it through his fingers in that familiar practised manner that brought a small unconscious smile onto Harry's face. Then he realised what the Dark Lord was asking and blinked. Of course there had been a test somewhere in there. There always was with the Dark Lord.

"I understand nothing anymore," Harry sighed, weariness making him foolishly honest.

To his slight surprise the Dark Lord rewarded him a small wry smirk. "Exactly. If I had told you any of this, you would not have believed a word. What you see, however, you have to choice but to accept. Understanding will come later."

Harry would have laughed, if he hadn't felt so much like crying.

Instead, he simply looked at the Dark Lord and told him, "Sometimes, I don't understand _you_ at all."

After that they fell into silence. The Dark Lord returned to his letter after a while, and Harry curled into his armchair, hugged his knees to his chest and watched how rain clouds gathered over the village of Little Hangleton. It was peaceful and just what Harry needed then. The silent scratching of a quill against parchment, the crackle of fire and an occasional frustrated sigh from the Dark Lord. The world could have been falling apart right then and Harry would not have cared in the least. This was enough for now.

A thought crossed Harry's mind, when he gazed at the Dark Lord through his half closed eyelashes, just about to fall asleep in the soft armchair. A weak chuckle escaped him and he drifted away with a smile still lingering on his lips:

It is always calmest in the eye of the storm.


	4. Matters of Blood and Blood that Matters

Emerald green eyes blinked open exactly quarter past six in the morning, coaxed to alertness by eerie shapes of light that the rising sun had painted on the western wall of the room. Harry squinted his eyes in the dim orange light, taking in the messy bedroom with a dazed gaze and sleepy mind. A small unwitting groan escaped his lips as he buried his face into his pillow, willing the sun away with all his might and the dawning day to turn back to the calm hours of night. But alas, he wasn't yet wizard good enough to switch off the sun or to twist time at his will and the course of the day continued on its eternal way despite his wishes.

Harry startled a bit more awake when his pillow suddenly twitched under his head and he rose to lean against his elbows to poke the offending cushion a few times.

_:Nagini, you lazy thing, haven't I told you a hundred times to sleep somewhere else than here,:_ he mumbled, before he let his head fall down again, ignoring completely the increasing twitching and the slowly appearing snake that slithered from underneath his pillow and blanket to rest her triangle head on top of Harry's messy black hair. Harry could feel a forked tongue tickling his ear and blindly tried to swat the blasted snake away, but missed his target by inches.

_:But you're so warm, snakeling,:_ Nagini replied calmly, sleepiness so clear in the words that they came out as something akin to a very snakeish yawn, rather than actual hisses. Harry made an effort and mumbled something incoherent in reply.

_:Though, I'd enjoy sleeping here more, if you silly humans didn't insist on waking up so early. Look, even the sun is barely up!:_ Nagini continued and her tone gained a new incredulous note, as if she found it a personal offence that anyone would be awake at the crack dawn. Her large body twisted a few more times, as she manoeuvred herself up enough to turn towards the windows and give the in-pouring light an affronted glare.

Harry pushed down the urge to inform the snake that it wasn't _his_ fault that he always woke so early. Waking up like this was a deeply rooted habit, hammered into his head by one crazy Dark Lord who insisted that it was foolish to waste the few hours of daylight. Harry had found this reasoning highly irrational, since the Dark Lord himself was a rather nocturnal being. After all, most of his shady businesses weren't considered exactly appropriate in direct daylight. And besides, the man was a _wizard_! If he needed more light, he could very well make some. But since Harry wasn't stupid or suicidal, he had kept his opinion mostly to himself and indulged the Dark Lord's whims by setting his daily rhythm to begin at the cue of these first rays of sunshine.

Harry could have explained this to Nagini in his defence, but he suspected that the snake already knew. Besides, Nagini was a known gossiper and a loudmouth, so any criticism from Harry would reach the ears of the Dark Lord before lunch time. The man didn't react well to complaints, so whining about meaningless little thing—such as an early wake up call, for example—would probably sent him over the edge and into one of his violent tantrums. Harry lived in a house where a certain level of selective muteness was a close companion of self-preservation.

_:I'd happily sleep some more if you'd just shut up,:_ Harry answered instead, but knew already that he couldn’t fall back to sleep. Heaving a small, annoyed sigh he stretched slowly and luxuriously, whilst 'accidentally' pushing Nagini's huge bulk just enough with his arm, so that the snake rolled over the edge of the soft bed and landed onto the floorboards with a loud _thud_ and an indignant hiss. Harry let out a quiet hissed laugher.

_:Some manners would do you no harm, snakeling,:_ Nagini hissed irritably.

_:You're hardly one to give me lessons on the topic, are you Nagi?:_ Harry shot back smugly. _:It's a good thing most humans can't understand you or else someone might have chopped you into potion ingredients already.:_

_:No one would dare!:_ Nagini argued, outraged by the mere thought, and Harry leaned over the edge of his bed to give the snake a wide, reassuring grin.

_:Don't worry, I wouldn't let them,:_ he promised kindly, before added, _:I have always wanted to find out if it'd be possible make a pair of boots out of you.:_

_:You obnoxious hatchling!:_

Harry chuckled at the snake's insulted tone, as he crawled out of his comfy bed and crossed the room to his wardrobe. He could hear how behind him Nagini slithered back onto the bed and coiled between the sheets to absorb the last of the lingering warmth.

Harry stopped by the windows long enough to glance through the curtains into their miserable wreck of a garden and the graveyard that spread out just below the hill onto which the Manor was built. Those same warm colours of sunrise that had first woken Harry painted the scenery with red and orange. The sun was slowly climbing up to shine over the tree tops beyond the graveyard. It would be a beautiful day again, very beautiful, which was a bit unusual this late in autumn.

_:Do you know what day it is, Nagi?:_ Harry asked casually as he pulled the double doors of his wardrobe open and chose the first robes he saw.

_:Day? I don't care about days,"_ Nagini grumbled. Harry huffed silently at the reply, amused.

Sometimes it was so easy to forget that he was talking to a snake. Of course, Nagini didn't care about days, since time held very little meaning to her kind. The sun came up and it went down for a while, only to raise again. That's what all there was to it, in Nagini's opinion. She didn't count days or measure time, but thought things like that were something only humans did just to make life more difficult for themselves.

_:Well, do you know what_ happens _today?:_ Harry corrected himself, as he glanced at Nagini over his shoulder.

_:Eating and sleeping, I hope,:_ Nagini replied, before tilted her head knowingly at Harry. _:And you'll be leaving.:_

_:Yes, I'll be leaving,:_ Harry sighed. The words rang heavy and final in the room, echoing harshly from the walls.

_:Silly snakeling. The time is long past,:_ Nagini said and stared at Harry from underneath the duvet. _:When snakes hatch, the first thing they do is slither.:_

_:I'm not a snake,:_ Harry reminded her, perhaps more sharply than strictly necessary. Harry may sometimes forget that Nagini was a snake, but Nagini _always_ seemed to deliberately ignore the fact that Harry was a human.

_:When birds hatch, they wait that their feathers grow and then they_ fly _,:_ Nagini carried on, as if Harry hadn't said anything. _:You are not a snake and no one expects you to slither. You are not a bird, but no one expects you to fly. But you_ are _a human and all your life you have had two legs.:_

Harry was legitimately confused by now. _:Erm. . . What do my legs have to do with anything?:_

She offered Harry an exasperated flick of her tongue. _:It's about time you put them to good use and walked.:_

For a moment all Harry could do was to stare at her. She lounged on the bed and clearly basked in the success of her little speech.

_:Nagi, that was surprisingly profound,:_ Harry admitted finally, before pursed his lips thoughtfully. _:Which makes me wonder… Did the Dark Lord tell you to say all this?:_

Nagini fidgeted for a while, making a tangled mess of the sheets on the bed, before hissed irritably, _:I have no idea what you are talking about, snakeling.:_

_:Oh, so he did tell you to!:_ Harry exclaimed, just when Nagini slithered down from the bed and started her (surprisingly fast) escape towards the door. But Harry was nothing if not persistent. _:What did you get out of the deal? Nagini? I know he promised you something for this. What was it? Are you even listening to me?:_

_:No. I am too insulted to listen to anything right now,:_ was all Harry heard before the last tip of her tail disappeared through the crack of the door.

Harry shook his head and chuckled to himself, feeling lighter than he had felt in days.

…o0o…

The Manor was unnaturally silent when Harry later made his way downstairs.

It wasn't that peaceful silence which consumed the halls when the Dark Lord was away with his followers, doing whatever it was he did during the long hours of his absence. Harry tried not to think about those things too much. This was the kind of waiting silence which seemed to be holding its breath in suspense. There was a dangerous, subtle edge to it, which made warning bells ring in Harry's mind. He had heard this kind of silence before and he knew where to find the source.

And thus, just like he had suspected, he found the Dark Lord in the first floor sitting room, relaxed on one of the cushioned antique chairs and sipping calmly his first cup of morning tea. When he looked up at the approaching steps, Harry could spot the darker splatters of blood on his dark robes and a rusty-red smear across his left cheek. Harry flashed a half-smile as he sat on the chair opposite to the man and called a house elf for more tea.

"Rough night?" Harry asked politely, when a steaming cup was in his hands and the house elf was gone again.

"I would rather describe it as long and extremely frustrating," the Dark Lord corrected dryly.

"Nagini will complain about the blood on the carpets," Harry commented as mixed some sugar into his tea. The words earned him a mild glare, but that was all. After a few more silent minutes Harry asked quietly, "What was it then?"

"A guest I had to entertain," the Dark Lord replied and his tone told Harry that it was best to let it go. Whatever it had been, it had clearly made the Dark Lord absolutely _furious_. The restless dark magic still buzzed in the air around the man and Harry knew that he could maintain his calm façade only because he had already blown most of the steam out of his system. It was clearly one of those dungeon type of things that Harry was _never_ supposed to ask about.

Usually, the Dark Lord allowed Harry to wander anywhere in the Manor from the messy attic to the well-hidden wine cellar, but the dungeons had always been off-limits. All Harry had seen of the place was the large iron door that led there. He knew, vaguely, that behind the door were stairs that descended into the darkness below the house, but that was about it. Occasionally, Harry had seen people go down there and he knew that most of them had never returned. It was an intriguing place.

"I assume you have packed," the Dark Lord said and it was not a question.

Harry nodded. "Of course."

"The portkey?"

Harry patted his robe pocket, feeling the round edges of the pocket watch through the fabric.

"Good."

For a moment they sat in silence, before Harry spoke.

"Is there. . . Is there something specific you expect me to do while I'm there?" Harry asked. It was the one question that had burned in the back of his mind for weeks now. After all, there _had to_ be some reason why it was so important for Harry to go.

"I expect you to study and learn," the Dark Lord replied. "I want you to _see_. Memorize everything you observe. Knowledge will always serve you well."

Harry waited, but nothing else followed. "That's it?"

The Dark Lord gave him a wry glance. "Despite everything, it _is_ a school. There are very few things you can actually _do_." He paused for a second, before added as an afterthought, "For now, at least."

Harry nodded, but he still felt unreasonably disappointed.

"Be wary of Dumbledore," the Dark Lord said then, and his intent eyes fell onto Harry with crushing force. "He may look like a harmless old man with all his genial smiles and follies, but he is anything but."

"You have mentioned him before," Harry remembered, trying to recall what he had heard. He couldn't remember much, just the disdainful tone the Dark Lord had always used. "He's the headmaster, isn't he?"

"That is only one of the many titles he carries," the Dark Lord told. "Do not trust him. He will relish each of your weaknesses and use them against you. He will figure you out and when he does, he will wove a web by revealing and hiding truths you never knew you wanted to know. That web will ensnare you before you have caught on what is happening. Albus Dumbledore is a spider with a human face and in his little game you are nothing but a fly."

"His game," Harry repeated. He pointedly didn't ask what he'd be in the game _the Dark Lord_ was playing. "How do I play it then?"

The Dark Lord gave him a small twisted smirk of approval. " _You_ don't."

Harry understood at once. This game was between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. Harry would have no other part in it than to act as a pawn. He couldn't even bring himself to feel irritated, but instead something akin to relief flashed through him. Harry didn't care about these strange little games that the Dark Lord seemed to play as easily as he breathed. Harry didn't understand _people_ at all, while the Dark Lord pulled their invisible strings without a thought and made them dance to whatever tune he wanted them to.

"Right, how do I _not_ play then?" Harry asked.

"He will reach out to you because he knows of your... _importance_ to me," the Dark Lord said and grimaced at the word. "The only thing I expect you to do is not to get tangled into one of his webs. Don't let anything he says affect you. Don't give him anything, no information, no promises and no answers. Keep yourself distant and alert at all times. And remember, if he doesn't get through to you, he will use other people."

"So, basically I have to be paranoid around everyone?" Harry made sure and received a curt nod in response.

"That would be ideal, yes. And most importantly, should he try to stop you from leaving Hogwarts and his immediate vicinity _at any time_ , it is essential that you use the emergency portkey. Do you understand me? Keep it _always_ close by."

Harry let it go unmentioned that the watch had not left Harry's pocket ever since the Dark Lord had given it to him. He kept it with him always and when he slept it rested underneath his pillow. It felt too important to let go.

"I understand," Harry assured to the Dark Lord.

The other thing Harry now understood were the rules of this little game. It was obvious that the Dark Lord was pushing Harry towards this Albus Dumbledore, dangling him in front of the man like a bait. Just close enough to reach, but too far to grasp. However, why the Dark Lord was so confident his little plan would work, was beyond Harry's understanding. There was absolutely nothing about Harry worth Dumbledore's attention. And yet, the Dark Lord seemed to be certain that the man would seek Harry out. The only logical explanation was that Harry knew something about the Dark Lord that the Headmaster was desperate to know, too.

"What if..." Harry began hesitantly, cleared his throat, and tried again, "What if I fail? What if... something goes wrong?"

The Dark Lord watched him for a moment. Just looked, solemn and thoughtful, as if he was taking apart everything Harry was and wasn't and drawing conclusions that were beyond Harry's comprehension.

"If it comes to that, then I will kill you myself," the Dark Lord replied finally.

For a moment Harry didn't know how to react. He knew that the Dark Lord didn't make light of things like these and that the man meant every word. A brief flash of nervous fear flashed through Harry, before he actually thought about it.

_If it came to that,_ the Dark Lord had said and he hadn't sounded particularly thrilled about it either. It wasn't a threat as much as it was a promise. Death would not be a punishment for Harry's failure, not really. It was merely the easiest and simplest way for Harry the escape the metaphorical web of deceit which was the gravest danger Dumbledore presented. Should Harry ever feel inclined to side with Dumbledore, sympathise with him or find him reasonable, then any trust the Dark Lord could have ever placed on Harry would be lost forever. Harry would already be dead to the man, and if it did come to that, then Harry was sure he wouldn't mind death all that much.

Harry cleared his throat a little awkwardly. "I... Alright then. Thanks, I suppose. I'll try my best."

The Dark Lord cast a nearly perplexed look at Harry, before nodded. "Good."

_Good_. It was the most overwhelming compliment the Dark Lord ever gave, unless he wanted something. _Good_ was the assurance that Harry was doing just fine, the assurance that what Harry did was enough. _Good_ always told Harry that the Dark Lord was satisfied with him, and that there was nothing to worry about. Now Harry was going to Hogwarts and _months_ would pass before he would be able to hear that simple ' _good'_ again.

Something ached in Harry's chest and all he wanted was to crawl across the floor and curl at the Dark Lord's feet. Maybe cry a little, too. He didn't, of course. He just sat there in the stupid sitting room and drank the stupid tea, pretending that everything was fine. _Nothing_ was fine, but the Dark Lord disagreed, so Harry remained silent.

No goodbyes were exchanged, no more words wasted. And when Harry left the Manor mere hours later, the same wordless silence resided in his heart and prevailed.

…o0o…

The King's Cross station was flooded with an endless river of mindlessly rushing people, quickly moving bodies and well-aimed elbows. Some people coming, some going and more than half of them doing neither, just running in mad circles and returning to this very station time and time again, day after day. Harry stood in the middle of all it, watching the scene reluctantly impressed, and wondered just what all these people were doing here. He had never seen so many people in one place at once and it was starting to make him feel quite distressed and nearly nauseous by now. Even worse, the longer he watched the strange outfits and the bizarre baggage they carried, the more obvious it started to seem that most of these people were _muggles_. It hardly made Harry feel any better.

He ducked from the way of another swinging handbag and shot a glare at the woman who didn't even notice him.

"Unbelievable," he murmured to himself, a frown marring his young face, as he pushed his carriage on the move and started to make his way through the masses towards the platforms nine and ten.

The Dark Lord had warned Harry beforehand that he shouldn't bother with high expectations regarding his year mates. The warning had been followed by a long list of very unflattering adjectives describing Harry's future year mates and then by an order—which had been masqueraded as an advice—not to waste time trying to mingle with his house mates, but to actually spent the time wisely and _study_.

Harry had nodded obediently at the time, but since he knew very well that the man sometimes resorted to outrageous exaggerations, he hadn't made up his mind completely. Of course he had right on the spot decided to do that studying. He would read every bloody book in the library and listen intently in every class until his brain rotted, because he had made a promise and all the promises he ever made to the Dark Lord he _would_ keep, no matter what. But maybe, just maybe, if the occasion presented itself he could also... well, satisfy his curiosity. It couldn't be _that_ bad to ask a few questions and study the other students a bit.

Harry was curious whether the other children would be like him or not. What did they do with their free time? Did they have friends and parents and pets? When did they cast their first spell? It was all very fascinating to Harry and the only way to find out any of this was to speak with someone of his age.

And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind a great fear was slowly raising its head. What would happen if Harry was somehow strange in their eyes, stupid perhaps or maybe just annoying? Maybe everyone would hate him from the first moment and he would never get along with anyone. Hexes would be shot at him in the corridors and people would laugh at him behind his back. Harry would have never admitted it aloud, but the fear of the scenario was nearly paralysing. Still, he was determined to at least try.

The problem was that Harry had no idea how to approach someone. He had tried to prepare a speech to introduce himself to someone, but it all had sounded very foolish. He had considered offering his help with course work or spell practises, but it might seem too arrogant, as if he didn't believe his peers could do it themselves. Harry pondered on this, when he passed through the gate to the platform 9¾.

There were a few people standing on the platform and a polite middle-aged man helped Harry haul his luggage onto the train. After finding a nice looking compartment, Harry settled down and gazed through the window curiously, watching the slowly increasing number of people on the platform. There was a strange itchy feeling in his stomach and it took Harry a while to realise that the feeling was nervousness. He was actually anxious to go. How strange.

It wasn't all that surprising, really. He had visited very few places in his life, seeing how the Dark Lord didn't like him leaving the Manor and Harry was rarely allowed to accompany the man when he left the Manor for whatever reason. Hogwarts would be the very first place where Harry had ever gone on his own and where he would have to stay longer than a few quickly passing moments. Hogwarts would be his _home_ for most of the year now, and quite possibly for years to come.

A careful knock at the door interrupted Harry's thoughts. When his head snapped towards the sound, he saw a boy about his age, a few inches taller and with a fiery red hair.

"Uhm. . . Can I stay here? Everywhere else is full."

Harry blinked and searched for words, for anything polite and smart. But nothing came to his mind, and he merely sat there dumbly and stared.

"I mean if it's too much trouble I can..." the boy waved a vague hand and his sentence faded awkwardly away.

Harry cleared his throat quickly. "No, it's alright. You may stay."

"Um, yeah, thanks," the boy scratched his neck and entered the compartment hesitantly. He set down his luggage and sat opposite of Harry, fidgeting uncomfortably. Harry did his best not to stare too obviously. A deep silence settled between them and it lasted until the train hooted and slowly started to roll from the platform. The speed increased and the platform disappeared quickly, grey houses flickered by, until London was left behind and the scenery slowly faded into green fields and small rivers. After about ten minutes, the other boy's fidgeting had become nearly unbearable to Harry.

Harry cleared his throat and asked unnecessary loudly, "So, is this your first year?"

The other boy startled. "Uh, yeah. You?"

"Same," Harry told.

A brief hesitant silence was cut short this time, when the other boy continued speaking. "I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley."

Harry flashed a quick awkward smile. "I'm Harry."

Ron replied with a smile of his own, looking relieved, as if he hadn't been sure Harry _would_ answer. After that it seemed like some sort of dam had broken down.

"Whew, I've been so bloody nervous all day, you know," Ron said and shook his head. "I mean, I have waited to go to Hogwarts all my life, but the horror stories I've heard have been... well, a bit worrying. I have brothers, you see. They’ve been telling me all kinds of things for ages. Most of it is probably bullshit, but still…"

Harry nodded politely, but didn't say anything, since he wasn't sure what he was _supposed_ to say to that.

"There's this forest right next to the school and Charlie told me there are _werewolves_ there," Ron said and shook his head. "I probably wouldn’t have believed, but Charlie has always been fascinated by magical creatures, so he probably through it was a _good thing_ or something."

Then Ron seemed to realize that Harry wasn't contributing anything to the conversation, and bright shade of red crept across his face. "I'm babbling, aren't I? Sorry."

"It's alright," Harry assured. After giving it a quick thought, he added, "I have heard all kinds of stories, too."

Those hadn't been stories of werewolves in the forest, though. They had mostly been of hidden hallways and of portraits and ghosts who knew things of history no one else remembered anymore. Harry had heard of the forbidden books that lay forgotten and unattainable in the library. He had heard all about the things they _didn't_ teach at Hogwarts and all about the things they should teach differently. Harry had heard the history of Hogwarts and knew everything about its founders. The Dark Lord's Hogwarts was different from everyone else's; it wasn't what Hogwarts _seemed_ to be, it was what Hogwarts hid beneath the façade of a school.

Harry didn't tell any of this to Ron, though, because _that_ Hogwarts wasn't something Harry wanted to share. Instead, he let Ron do the speaking and listened to all the funny little tales Ron's five brothers had told him. It was interesting, in its own way, but even Harry could tell that most of the stories were shameless exaggerations and outright lies.

"Percy is a right git most of the time," Ron was sighing. "He's been insufferable all summer, after they made him a Prefect. He gave me his rat, though, after he got an owl." At this Ron dug deep into his pocket and pulled out a grey old rat. "He's name is Scabbers. He's pretty much useless, just sleeps all the time."

Harry wondered how _a rat_ could be useful, even if it didn't sleep all the time. Ron poked the rat a few times with his wand, but the creature didn't as much as twitch. He shrugged a bit helplessly, before an excited grin climbed his face.

"Fred and George taught me a spell to turn it yellow. Do you want to see?"

"Um, sure," Harry shrugged in reply.

Ron cleared his throat a bit, before began to wave his wand and said, "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid rat yellow!"

Nothing happened. Harry frowned. "Are you... sure that's a real spell?"

Ron huffed and shrugged again. "I have no clue. Might be a joke." He poked the rat again with his wand.

"Maybe it looks a bit lighter in colour," Harry commented diplomatically, before bit his lower lip thoughtfully. "I know one spell that's supposed to make things bigger. I could try?"

"Sure, why not," Ron answered, "It's not like Scabbers is good for anything else, is it?"

He had barely finished speaking, when the door of the compartment slid open and a short, brown-haired girl stood in the doorway.

"Hi. You haven't happened to see a toad, have you?" she asked, her sharp eyes bouncing between them. Her eyebrows were drawn together, so that she had solemn and a slightly judgemental look on her face. She was dressed into Hogwarts robes and her wand was sticking out of one of her pockets. A thick book titled _Hogwarts: A History_ rested on her other arm.

"A toad?" Ron repeated and glanced at Harry confused.

"Some boy called Neville lost his," she told them, as if the answer should have been obvious. "I suppose that’s a no then." She sighed, but was suddenly distracted.

"Oh!" she gasped loudly and an excited smile took over her face. "Are you trying out spells?"

"No," Ron said simultaneously, as Harry replied, "Yes."

She blinked and glanced between them. "Um..."

"Yes, we are," Harry told courteously. "You're welcome to watch."

The girl bounced into the compartment and sat down. "That's nice, thank you. I'm Hermione Granger."

"Harry," Harry introduced himself, all the while feeling unreasonably intimidated by her unexpected excited energy.

"Let's see then," she said. She crossed her arms expectantly and cradled _Hogwarts: A History_ into the cage of her arms like a valued treasure. Yep, definitely intimidated. This was starting to feel like an exam by now, when it was supposed to be just a little bit of practice. Harry glanced at Ron helplessly, who merely shrugged in reply.

"Right," Harry mumbled as turned to stare at the rat intently. He knew some spells, but he had never tried any of them out, so he was rather nervous and the expectant audience did nothing to calm his nerves. He pointed his wand at the rat and cast, " _Engorgio."_

Nothing happened. Harry stared at the rat and experimentally tapped it with his wand. Still nothing.

"Hmm," Hermione was saying, thoughtfully. "Are you sure it's the right spell?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Harry told firmly and tried again, with a sharper flick. " _Engorgio_!"

This time, right before their eyes, the rat swelled and became larger. It grew wider and taller and squeaked a few times in panic, before the swelling stopped. It was now a little bigger than it was before, perhaps the size of a small cat. Harry smiled to himself, happy that it had worked, and mildly worried that he could not recall the counter charm.

"Wicked," Ron breathed and stared at his now-larger pet curiously.

"Yes, quite impressive," Hermione said, too. "Have you tried the spell before?"

Harry shook his head. "No. My... guardian didn't let me practise spells at home. He said I managed to cause enough havoc without magic, so there was no need for further encouragement," Harry told and smiled absent-mindedly at the memory. "Actually, I wasn't sure it _would_ work. It was possible that nothing would have happened, if I hadn't got it right, or that the rat had shrunk or turned invisible. In the worst case scenario, the spell could have blown the rat up to the point where it would have exploded. I'm glad it went well."

Ron stared at Harry in horror now. "Exploded?" he squeaked.

"Hm? Oh! No, don't worry. That would have been highly unlikely," Harry told reassuringly. Ron didn't look reassured. "Now, if I could just remember how to—"

His sentence was cut short as the door of the compartment slid open once more. This time no other than Draco Malfoy stepped in, with two other boys in tow. The compartment was becoming rather crowded by now.

"Harry! I've been looking for you all over the train," he huffed without as much as a greeting, and let himself slump on the seat next to Harry. "I was sure you had somehow managed to miss the train."

"Well, here I am," Harry stated the obvious.

Draco gave him a crushing glare and opened his mouth for an undoubtedly sarcastic reply, but fell suddenly silent as he took notice of Harry's two companions. His eyes narrowed into slits as he repeated Harry's words almost absently, "Yes, here you are." He stared at Ron and Hermione for a moment, intent and curious, before seemed to shake himself out of his stupor.

"I don't believe we have met. I'm Draco Malfoy," he told as gave a strange crooked smile towards Ron and Hermione and something about that smile made Harry feel unreasonably uncomfortable. Draco nodded towards his two friends who had tagged along with him. "And these are Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle."

Harry didn't miss how Ron's eyes now narrowed ever so slightly, suspiciously, as he glanced between Draco and his friends. Something seemed to be going on, but Harry couldn't figure out what it was. To his slight relief, Hermione looked equally confused by the rising tension in the compartment.

Draco turned to Ron with a curiously challenging look in his grey eyes. "And you?"

"I'm, um, Ron Weasley," Ron told awkwardly and the smirk that climbed onto Draco's face then promised nothing good.

"Yes, I can _see_ that," Draco replied and gave Ron's worn robes a pointed look. Ron flushed bright shade of red, which clashed horribly with his red hair, and his mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. Draco turned to Hermione with a polite fake smile on his face. "And you might be?"

Harmione raised her chin defiantly, before replied, "Hermione Granger."

Draco's mouth thinned into a narrow line, while his grey eyes raked over the people in the compartment. He was clearly displeased by what he saw.

"Harry, I need a word. _Now_ ," Draco snarled in low tone, eyes flashing dangerously, as he grasped Harry by the collar of his robes and hauled him out of the compartment. Harry didn’t manage a word in protest, when Draco was already at him, anger and confusion visibly pouring out of him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, not understanding why the Malfoy heir was suddenly at his throat like this. He had thought they had gotten along alright. Kind of.

"Didn't you hear her? _Granger_. It's obviously a muggle name! She's a mudblood and _proud_ of it. Otherwise she wouldn't declare it like that in civilized company," Draco told and looked about ready to toss a few hexes at Harry for being so dim.

"Oh, that," Harry sighed in his sudden understanding.

"Yes, _that_. And do you know who that ginger is? A Weasley, that's who he is. They are one of the old families, sure, but they have fallen a long way. They're probably trying to take over Britain by breeding like rabbits and the whole lot of them are _blood traitors_ ," Draco spit the last words out, as if he thought blood traitors were even worse than muggleborns. "They think that the likes of Granger actually have a _right_ to be here among the magical folk. It's sickening. At least they haven't sunk so low as to actually _mix_ with them, but I suppose that's only a matter of time."

Draco actually looks honestly nauseous now, as if merely speaking of this is enough to make him sick.

“I don't see what it matters," Harry confessed. "They are here _now,_ and who am I to tell them whether or not they should be accepted into Hogwarts."

"You don't... For Salazar's sake! This isn't about some petty political disagreement anymore! There's an open civil _war_ out there and you will eventually have to pick a side, if you want to live through it," Draco snarled, his tone strangely tight and almost nervous. "You can't be seen consorting with the likes of _them_ , if you ever wish to side with... well, Him."

Draco didn't have to clarify who he meant. It was so painfully clear that Harry very nearly flinched at the accusing words. Of course, Harry knew the Dark Lord's stance towards muggles and muggleborns. Harry had all his life heard how muggles were inferior to wizards and witched and how they were the root of all evil. Muggleborns, according to the Dark Lord, were slowly wearing on the still prevailing wizarding traditions and destroying the culture of the society from inside out. Harry could almost hear the echo of the Dark Lord's voice in Draco's words.

Harry heaved a deep breath to steady himself, and looked Draco straight into the eye with a cool look on his face.

"Did you see _their_ expressions, though" Harry said, nodding back towards the compartment where Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger still waited. "Apparently, I can't be seen consorting with the likes of _you_ either, if I decide to side with them instead."

Draco seemed startled, eyes flying wide and jaw hanging open. "You can't possibly mean...! Side with _them_? Just saying things like could be enough to get you killed!"

Harry sighed and run a frustrated hand through his hair. "I wasn't saying that. I just mean..." Harry started, but realized soon that he didn't really know what he meant.

Draco gave him the last despairing look and shook his head. "I don't even want to know what you meant," he said, before continued more seriously. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but just… watch out. You're so bloody daft, that you're going to step on many wrong toes, if you don't be careful."

"I'm not..." Harry begun, but a look from Draco silenced him.

"Yes, you are," the Malfoy heir told him firmly. Since he didn't sound angry anymore, only mildly frustrated, Harry decided not to argue.

Harry offered a small lopsided smile as a peace-offering. "Fine. Whatever you say."

When they re-entered the compartment, Draco gave both Hermione and Ron a rather impressive disdainful glare. Then his eyes strayed upon the engorged rat and he grimaced. He pulled out his wand, pointed it at the creature and cast quickly and easily, while ignoring Ron's squeak of a protest.

" _Reducio_ ," he cast and the rat shrunk back to its original size in a blink of an eye. He then shot a withering look at Ron and Hermione and sneered, "It has been a _pleasure_ , truly, but the sudden urge to be anywhere else is overwhelming." Harry just managed to open his mouth to form a protest, when Draco had already swirled around and disappeared with a curt, "Crabbe, Goyle, let's go."

Ron stared open-mouthed after them, before snarled out an irritated, "What a git!" He reached over and cradled the now regular sized rat in his palms, as if checking for any injuries.

Harry deemed it wiser not to respond and glanced over at Hermione who was sitting on her seat stiffly, her back ramrod straight and lips thinned into a tight line.

"Are you—" Harry begun, but didn't make it to the end.

"I'm _fine_ ," Hermione bit out and stood up swiftly. "But I really don't have time for this. I promised to help Neville with his toad and we're almost at Hogwarts. There isn't much time, so if you don't mind I _really_ have to go."

Before Harry or Ron had enough time to respond in any way, she had left the compartment, her curls bouncing and a frantic spring to her steps. Harry turned to give Ron a confused frown which Ron returned in the form of a cold glance.

"While you were gone with your _friend_ ," Ron said and contempt was clear in the tone. "The two bastards had a few things to say about her."

"You mean..." Harry frowned as tried to remember their names, "Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Well, _yeah_ ," Ron replied, as if it was obvious. "It's not really much of a surprise that the _likes of them_ would..." He didn't finish with the sentence, but shook his head. Then Ron stared at Harry more intently and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, before he added more silently, "I don't want to... accuse you of anything, but if I were you, I'd choose my friends more carefully."

"We are hardly friends," Harry replied absently, and silently admitted to himself that he wasn't entirely sure whether he meant Ron or Draco or both.

Rest of the journey passed mostly in silence, as neither of them knew what to say after all that.

…o0o…

At the Hogsmeade station, a giant of a man welcomed them; twice as high as anyone Harry knew and four times as wide. He called out for all the first years with low and booming voice, waving a large lantern in his other hand. He introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid, the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds of Hogwarts. It was his loud voice and huge, hulking figure led the herd of scared and excited first years down to the lake shore and instructed:

"Get into the boats. No more than four into each!"

"You're coming with me," Draco informed Harry curtly, as grabbed his arm and dragged him over to one of the boats. Harry didn't bother with protests.

The boats floated in neat formation over the glass-like surface of the lake. Harry leaned to peer over the edge of the boat into the dark depths, but saw nothing. He had read that there were all kinds of things in the lake. Merfolk and the likes, even a giant squid. Harry tried to calculate in his head how quickly a giant squid could swallow a boatful of first year students and whether or not Hagrid would have enough time to save them. Probably not, Harry decided, and tried to think about anything else.

A sudden loud gasp nearby, made Harry look up curiously. What he saw then, made a quiet awed wheeze escape his lips, too, as he stared up along with every one of his year mates.

The Hogwarts castle loomed over them. Its walls and towers reached majestically towards the sky and thousands of windows cast light into the darkness of the evening. The silhouette and the sea of lights reflected on the surface of the lake, doubling the effect and making it all that much remarkable. Harry suddenly understood why they had been taken to the castle this route and not by the carriages the other students had used. It was an impressive sight, even Harry had to admit, as he stared up in silent awe.

The castle was just as impressive inside. High ceilings and arches, statues in every corner and walls crammed with portraits of all the important people. Windows were high and many of them decorated with pictures of unicorns, dragons and the merfolk. The staircases were long and wide, and some of them moved on their own, some led to nowhere and some of them seemed to go everywhere. It was very complex and fascinating at once, but this time they didn't have much time to admire it all.

Hagrid led them in the castle to meet a strict looking elderly woman. Professor McGonagall was her name, apparently, and she taught Transfiguration. The name was distantly familiar and Harry recalled seeing it branded on the cover of one of the books they had in the Manor library. It had been a complicated book and Harry had quickly given up on it after opening it for the first time. Still, it was nice to receive a confirmation that there was at least a one competent teacher in the whole school.

She gave them quick instructions on what to do and what to expect, while her sharp eyes swept them over. She had an air of no-nonsense to her and Harry decided not to get on her wrong side.

"Bill always said he was terrified of her," Ron whispered to him when McGonagall ordered them to form a line and began to march them towards the Great Hall. Harry suspected that anyone would be terrified of Professor McGonagall. He wondered if she had taught the Dark Lord, too.

The sorting ceremony itself was a very simple process.

A small stool and an old wrinkly hat were brought into the Hall. Professor McGonagall placed the hat down on the stool, and before Harry had time to become too confused by it, the hat burst out singing. It was a silly little piece with ridiculous and rhyming lyrics which described all the houses and the traits they sought. When the Hat made it to the end of its song, the whole Hall applauded and cheered loudly, as the Hat bowed low. Harry found himself grinning widely, mostly out of disbelief.

"Are they serious?" he mumbled to no one in particular. Apparently all they had to do was try the Sorting Hat on and it would tell them in which house they belonged. It was a _hat_ , after all, so Harry had all the reason in the world to be mildly alarmed by this. But then again, Harry had come across other magical items which could actually do amazing things on their own.

The sorting proceeded as Professor McGonagall called them out one by one. Harry wasn't particularly interested in the sorting, so he let his attention wander. He was rather impressed by the ceiling of the Hall which looked like a night sky arching over them. It was mostly cloudy, but if Harry squinted, he could catch the pale light of a few twinkling stars here and there. It was very beautiful.

What confused Harry, though, was the fact that there were far fewer students than what Harry had expected. The four house tables were nowhere near full and the number of the first year students wasn't particularly remarkable either. It was very strange, now that Harry thought about it.

After all, Hogwarts _was_ the only school of magic in Britain, so most of the young witches and wizards ended up studying there. Of course some families preferred home schooling over enrolling their children, but those cases were few and scarce. Hogwarts wasn't _just_ a school, but it also connected the generations of magical folk; it was the very basis of networking in the wizarding world. The people you met at Hogwarts, the friends and enemies you made, would be same after you left the safety of these stony walls. The students here would one day be aurors, ministers and ministry officials. They would be merchants, vendors, famous Quidditch players and magical inventors. The wizarding world was a little carousel that went merrily around and around generation after another. The more people you got to know _now_ , the more advantage you would have in the future.

Harry's gaze wandered to the teachers' table. Witches and wizards of vastly varying ages sat there and watched over the sorting solemnly. None of them looked particularly familiar, except the old man who sat in the middle. Long grey hair and beard of the same shade, golden half-moon spectacles and a wide genial smile; the man could hardly be anyone else than the headmaster Dumbledore. What caught Harry's attention, however, was not the man's outrageously coloured robes, or the slight hum of magic he emitted, or even the piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through everything. No, it was the fact that the man was _old_ , far older than what Harry had imagined. He looked _ancient_. And not just ancient, but fragile too, the way old age made people seem.

Was _this_ the amazing Albus Dumbledore? A stiff breeze of wind would probably knock him over, so _surely_ the Dark Lord could take him apart with less than that.

Harry quickly turned his astonished stare away, before the headmaster could catch him staring. To push his confusion to side, Harry focused on the sorting and watched how the new students one by one went to their new houses. He huffed a small involuntary laugh, when Draco Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin before the Sorting Hat had properly touched his head.

As Professor McGonagall started to slowly but surely approach Harry's own name, a small nervous tingle started in his stomach. He wasn't _worried_ , per se, but mild unease was taking over. After all, Harry didn't know what _exactly_ the Hat did. What if it asked questions he was supposed to know the answers to? Harry tried to recall the twelve uses of dragon's blood, but could only remember four.

Parkinson, Patil, Patil, and then, "Potter, Harry!"

Harry draw a breath and walked up to the stool, where he sat down and the Sorting Hat was placed on his head. The last thing Harry’s eyes caught, before the edge of the hat fell over them, was the grave expression on Headmaster Albus Dumbledore’s wrinkly face.

_A spider with a human face,_ Harry thought and the description matched poorly with the worn old man seated at the teachers' table.

"My, quite the start, Mr. Potter," a voice said in Harry's ears and Harry realized with a startle that the hat was addressing him directly. "And a most apt evaluation of character. Though, I doubt the headmaster would appreciate it quite as much as I do."

"Uhm, sorry?" Harry offered hesitantly.

The Hat barely heard him, humming thoughtful, as it mulled through Harry's mind. Harry could feel its presence somewhere in the labyrinth of his thoughts and memories, but it was subtle and barely notable; absolutely nothing like the Dark Lord's way of rummaging through his mind like an exceptionally vicious whirlwind.

"Such a fascinating mind you have, Mr. Potter," the Hat told him delightedly. "It has been years, since I have seen anything quite like this."

Harry didn't interrupt, since anything that he could have said was already there in his head for the Hat to read.

"Extraordinary sharpness of mind and willingness to learn. Your skills would not go to waste in Ravenclaw. But there is a great deal of ambition here, as well. You thirst to prove just what you're capable of and there is very little that could stop you on your way to greatness. In Slytherin you would be in alike company. Difficult, difficult... There's also bravery fit for any Gryffindor and it seems to be right in your blood in the fiercest ways imaginable! And rashness, too. You tend to act before you think, don't you, Mr. Potter?" the Hat asked and sounded almost excited, as it dug deeper into Harry's mind.

It had been quite a while now, and Harry could hear silent confused murmur spreading in the Great Hall. He wondered how long they would let him sit here, before McGonagall would snatch the Hat from his head and tell him that there had clearly been a mistake.

"What is _this_ , then? You have an extremely loyal heart," the Hat mumbled with obvious surprise. "Oh, yes. You possess almost merciless loyalty, most of which is already given. There is not much you wouldn't do for those you care about, is there? A trait of a true Hufflepuff. This certainly is most difficult. Just where should I put you?"

"Erm, anywhere is fine, really," Harry told the Hat, hoping that it would speed up the process some.

"Are you sure, Mr. Potter?"

"I, well, I don't know! It's your job to sort me, isn't it?"

"You are correct, indeed, Mr. Potter. Better then be a... GRYFFINDOR!"

"Excuse me?" Harry asked aloud, just as one of the tables in the Hall began to cheer. The Hat was snatched from his head and the Deputy Headmistress McGonagall smiled thinly down at Harry.

"Welcome to the house, Mr. Potter," she said silently and sounded almost sad. Harry offered a quick nod, hopped down from the stool and hurried to the Gryffindor table. He sat down and sighed, whilst looked around his new housemates with a small smile spreading onto his face. A few of the Gryffindor students offered their quick welcomes, before returned to follow the sorting.

Harry himself sat there suffering a mild out-of-body experience. A Gryffindor. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. He hadn't give much thought to the house he would be sorted into, but somehow he didn't feel very brave or daring. This very moment he wanted to be _at home_ rather than here. That was hardly bravery. Harry was starting to seriously doubt whether the old Hat had any clue what it was doing.

When later the Hat sorted Ron Weasley into Gryffindor too, Harry politely applauded along with everyone else.

The feast that followed the sorting ceremony was overwhelming. The food was amazing and plentiful. There were so many dishes that Harry had never tasted before the he struggled to decide what to try first. There were surprisingly interesting conversations going on around him, about the lessons and Professors and house ghosts, and Harry didn't have enough ears to hear all of it. He introduced himself to another Gryffindor first year student, Neville Longbottom, and it turned out that he was the very Neville whose toad had been missing on the train.

It was unexpectedly nice and Harry found himself relaxing a bit. This was _his_ house now and these people were the ones he'd live and study with for the rest of his school years. And it was alright, Harry realised with a small startle. Perhaps everything _would_ be fine, eventually, once he got used to the change.

Harry let his gaze absently wander towards the teachers' table again. He glanced at Headmaster Dumbledore again. The man was conversing with Professor McGonagall, who sat on his right and waved his hands towards the rest of the Hall with an elated smile on his face. _The spider_ , Harry reminded himself. He shouldn't let the façade fool himself, the Dark Lord had warned him about that.

Harry was studying the other Professors curiously, when his eyes directly connected with a pair of dark and piercing ones. A man with a crooked nose and slimy black hair was staring at him intently and unwaveringly. He pretended to listen to the man sitting next to him, but Harry got the uncomfortable feeling that all of the man's attention was crushing on _Harry_. It was not a nice look the man was giving him, a narrow eyed and cold stare that bordered on suspicious.

Harry quickly turned his gaze away.

"Excuse me?" he turned to the red-haired Prefect, who could be no one else than Ron's brother Percy, sitting next to him. "Who is that Professor with black hair? Sitting over there?"

Percy glanced into the direction and nodded understandingly.

"Ah, that would be Professor Snape. Severus Snape is his whole name," Percy told. "He's a brilliant Professor, really knows what he's talking about, but... Well, let's say that he's not the most pleasant one."

Harry frowned and glanced at Professor Snape again, but he was not looking towards the Gryffindor table any more.

Percy misinterpreted the look and assured, "Not to worry. If you study hard in his class and do the work you're assigned he will mostly ignore you."

Harry nodded. "I'll make sure to do just that."

Harry couldn't quite pin-point what it was, but something about this Professor Snape bothered him. Even when he returned to his dinner, he couldn't quite shake the feeling away.

…o0o…

When Harry finally got to his dorm after the feast, the first thing he did was write a short letter.

_Hi,_  
The Hat had some trouble deciding, but sorted me into Gryffindor in the end. I'm not yet sure how I feel about that. The other students seem alright, though I haven't been acquainted with many of them yet. I met Draco Malfoy again. He's a bit irritating, but tolerable. And I saw the Spider at the Welcoming feast. He smiles too much and sounds half mad. There was also someone called Snape. He's the Potions Professor and a right creep. Should I worry about him?  
Sincerely,  
Harry

He shared the dorm with four other Gryffindor boys and throughout the night Harry could hear them toss and turn in their beds. The room smelled strange and it felt foreign. Nothing here reminded Harry of home and he felt out of place and order. He stayed awake long into the night, staring into the darkness and listening to the unfamiliar sounds of life.

When he finally slept, he dreamt of flies and spiders.

…o0o…

Three days later with the morning post Harry received a short note that read:

_Your Gryffindor status is hardly that surprising. Snape is not a threat, but do not trust him. Watch out for the Spider; he will make his move eventually._

Three curt clauses and no signature; that was all it really was. Harry was glad that the Dark Lord had bothered to reply, but it was slightly disappointing. With a small sigh, Harry slipped the note into his robe pocket, where it rested alongside the silver pocket watch.

Enclosed in that one pocket was all the assurance he had that the Dark Lord actually cared at least a little.


	5. The Greyscale World

At the respectable age of three, Harry had learned about anger.

It had been mostly by an accident; things like these always were.

It had all happened on a very unremarkable autumn night. The strange man Harry lived with had left earlier that day, and Harry had not seen him since. He hadn’t particularly missed him, because back then, both Harry and the man with red eyes had carefully kept their distance from each other.

At the time Harry hadn’t really even known who the man even _was_ , except that he lived at the Manor too, and that Nagini—and the other snakes who dropped by whenever they wished and left when they felt they should—respected him greatly. Harry’s snakish nature had told him to do so as well, and thus whenever rarely he had run into the man in the halls of the manor, they had exchanged wary looks and Harry had always hissed out a tentative greeting. Sometimes the man had bossed Harry around a bit, had told him to do and not to do things, but since he had always done that with the other snakes, too, Harry hadn’t considered it particularly strange. Although, the whole walking thing _had_ been mildly alarming from the start, but after awhile Harry had gotten used to the idea, so he hadn’t bothered holding grudges against the man.

They had been virtually strangers, Harry and this strange man with red eyes, until that night when it all had changed.

Harry had been sleeping on the carpet in front of the dining hall fireplace, when sudden loud ruckus, banging and cursing and screaming, had startled him awake sometime around midnight.

He had lingered there for a few passing minutes, listening to the increasing screams, before his blasted curiosity had once again gotten better of him. Harry had slowly gotten up and had let the sounds lure him through the dark Manor. He had made his way to the entry hall, where the darkness had been unnaturally thick and the stench of blood strong. Sometime during Harry’s journey through the nightly halls, the screams had faded into silent whimpers, but in the unnatural silence they had rung almost as loud as the screams from the before.

The man with red eyes had stood in the middle of the hall, shaking with barely contained rage, and at his feet had grovelled a man who Harry had never seen before. The man had been mostly motionless, as he had lain in a puddle of his own blood and sobbed silently. There might have been words, hidden in those whimpers, but Harry hadn’t quite been able to make them out. Cautiously, Harry had taken seat on one of the stairs and had watched on.

“I am _disappointed_ , Quirrell,” the man with red eyes had said and no trace of his fury had been present in his level voice. “I asked for information and you have nothing but rumours and feeble excuses to offer. I asked for the Stone and you bring me _nothing_ at all.”

The man, this Quirrell, had wheezed and coughed a few times, before words had passed reluctantly through his lips, “My lord... I tried... but Flamel, he... he knew...”

“Did he now?” the man with red eyes had mocked. “How could he _know_ , when the only one who knew I wished to acquire the Stone was _you_ , Quirrell? It does make me wonder.”

“My lord... please... I will...”

“ _Silencio._ It doesn’t matter anymore what you would or wouldn’t do. The Stone has been destroyed and Flamel is dying,” the man with red eyes had said coldly. “You have failed spectacularly and I do not feel very forgiving tonight.”

Then the man with red eyes had cast a curse Harry had not been familiar with. With a repulsed fascination, Harry had watched from his stair how the all of Quirrell’s joints had begun to twist into unnatural angles, accompanied with loud cracking and crunching noises. First his fingers had snapped from their places, then his knees and ankles and elbows and wrists.

_:How peculiar_ , _:_ a familiar voice had hissed from Harry’s left, and he had glanced at Nagini quickly from the corner of his eye.

_:Yes, it is,:_ he had replied. Together they had watched and listened to the screams that had returned tenfold. When there had been nothing left to dislocate, the spell had faded on its own. As the screams had faded, the too-deep silence had returned and gradually settled to fill the void left behind.

_:You should not linger here, Snakeling,:_ Nagini had said then, strange note entering her hisses.

_:I’m not scared. It’s fascinating,:_ Harry had argued, before it had occurred to him that perhaps that hadn’t been Nagini’s point at all. But by then it had been too late already. The quiet exchange had reached the ears of the man with red eyes and he had turned to stare through the darkness directly at Harry with a strange, nearly gleeful, look on his face.

“Come here, child,” he had ordered.

Harry hadn’t dared to move.

_:Come here now!:_

Harry had stood up and had reluctantly crossed the room to the man with red eyes.

The battered, quietly crying, man on the floor had let out a wail, when Harry had stepped past. It had been a distraught noise that had sent cold shivers running down Harry’s spine.

“Be quiet, you swine,” the man with red eyes had snapped out, his voice crisp and sharp, like the spell he had used to tear the man apart. Then he had floated—there really was not other word to describe the way he had moved in the state he was in—across the floor to Harry who had been standing a few feet away. The man had crouched next to him, not quite touching, but definitely close enough for Harry to smell the intruding, scorched stench of Dark magic that had surrounded the man.

: _You see this, child?:_ the man with red eyes had asked in the tongue of snakes, and his voice had lowered close to feverish whisper. _:Do you see?:_

Harry hadn’t been sure what the man had wanted him to see, but had nodded weakly anyway.

“He deserves death _,”_ had been the next feverish words, but Harry had barely grasped their meaning, since the man had once again switched to the human language he preferred. Quirrell had moaned pathetically at the words; it might have been a protest, it might have been a plea.

_:And I shall grant it to him. So, tell me, child, how should he die?:_ the man with red eyes had asked, and something had frozen solid in Harry’s chest.

_:I... what...:_

_:How should he die?:_ the man had repeated his question, and his cool breath had fanned across Harry’s cheek. _:Surprise me.:_

_Surprise him_ , Harry had wondered, not quite able to understand the meaning behind the words. Surprise him how? What did he want? Death, yes. That much had been obvious, but all the whys and hows had been missing. Harry had understood, vaguely, that should he fail to surprise the man now, the anger, which had been dancing thick around him, would next have been directed at him.

So, Harry had turned to look at dying man. But then again, perhaps he hadn’t been dying at that point, not really. In a sense, Quirrell had been dead the moment when the man with red eyes had first turned his burning, destructive anger towards him. Harry had wondered whether the man himself knew this or not. From the harsh breathing and the silence pained moaning, Harry had quickly judged that at that point he was well beyond caring about the difference between dead and dying.

A cold, long-fingered hand had curled around Harry’s neck, not quite tight enough to strangle, but just enough to warn. One of those spidery fingers had cut slowly across Harry’s throat, the fingernail scraping against the skin.

_:How should he die?:_ It had not been a question anymore, not really, for some time during the stretching silence impatience had turned it into an order.

_:You could... summon his heart?:_ Harry had suggested, his words quiet and tentative, terrified out of his mind, but strangely flattered by this attention he had unexpectedly been receiving.

For a brief moment absolute silence and stillness had prevailed and for that moment Harry had felt fear more intimately than he had never experienced it before. But then the cool hand which had been resting on Harry’s throat had retreated in an almost caressing, careful motion, as the man with red eyes had straightened slowly. Harry had not been sure what to think, when he had cautiously peered upwards to catch the expression on the man’s face. It had been an odd mixture of mild wonder and unadulterated excitement.

Then the man with red eyes had let out a half-manic laughter, before he had raised his wand and cast the spell.

Harry had remained where he was, watching how the man on the floor had let out pained scream when the spell took effect, before something dark red and sticky had started ooze through the skin of his chest, staining the purple robes he had been wearing. The screaming had quickly subsided, as life had left the man along with his mangled and squashed heart. In the eerie silence that had followed, the man with red eyes had laid one hand on Harry’s scrawny shoulder and had nodded his satisfaction. Harry had done well.

After that, Harry had decided never to let go of that approval.

…o0o…

But the hidden lesson Harry had learned that day was that true anger was terrifying only for a moment. Once it was gone, it faded into a mere memory which time would eventually eat away and it would then lay forever forgotten. Anger was vicious and burned everything on its way. It left behind nothing but destruction and regret, but nothing could burn so bright for long. The Dark Lord was very good at anger, he had mastered it to near perfection, in fact, but there was still something he was even better at: hatred.

Hatred was different from anger. In fact, hatred was _a form_ of anger which had merely lain still for a very long time, brewing and waiting and cooling down. Hatred was an unforgiving, soul-devouring power with all the patience and determination that anger lacked. Hatred could wait and bide its time, whereas anger was instant and uncontrollable in its impatience. While anger was destructive, hatred was constructive. One could not execute a vengeance or vendetta without hatred, because hate was the basis things like that were build upon.

Harry knew that the Dark Lord was consumed by hatred. His anger was momentary and explosive, but beneath it resided a thick layer of cold, pure hate. Harry wasn’t sure where that hate came form or whether it was due, but he knew it was there. It was so deeply part of the Dark Lord that it was sometimes impossible to tell where the sensible man in him ended and the hatred towards everything began. For a very long time, Harry had believed that _no one_ could hate with the same cold intensity that the Dark Lord did.

However, Harry realised his mistake after less than ten minutes into his first Potions class. The Dark Lord had very probably met his match in one Severus Snape.

Hate rang sharp in every word Professor Snape spoke and shined through every deed he did. It was a dark aura around him that made people unconsciously wary of him. And yet, after long and carefully observation, Harry came to the conclusion that most of all Snape hated himself. The students he disliked, yes, and he didn’t seem particularly fond of his job either, but the deep, ugly self-loathing overshadowed all those petty feelings of dislike.

However, even Snape’s dislike was razor-sharp and painful, as he cut into his first year students with harsh words and cruel sneers. It soon became obvious, that his classes would be excruciating torture to anyone who was not a Slytherin or a prodigy when it came to potions. For one reason or another, he seemed to take special pleasure in tearing into Gryffindors. From Longbottom he asked a series of questions a fourth year would have struggled to answer; Granger he mocked for her obvious, over-flowing enthusiasm; Patil he gifted with such an spectacular glare, accompanied with a sneer, that she seemed to make a silent vow never to attend Potion classes again.

But when it came to Harry, Professor Snape merely shot one sharp look at him, weighing and calculating, before seemed to ignore him altogether for the rest of the class. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he accepted it with relief, nonetheless.

As dislikeable as Snape was, Harry couldn’t bring himself to hate the man. It would have been waste of time and not least so because Snape would always hate himself more than anyone else could. Still, Harry knew that he would have no trouble following the Dark Lord’s advice of not trusting the man a single bit.

Somehow, Potions were still one of the most likable classes Harry had, along with Transfiguration. Charms class was a bit boring, despite fact that Professor Flitwick was pleasant and obviously enjoyed the subject he was teaching and Herbology was much the same way. Defence against Dark Arts was utter waste of time, since it was taught by a young woman who had just recently graduated. Apparently Professor Belby had applied to become an Auror, but she had not been accepted. Therefore, she had returned to teach at Hogwarts for the time being. There was really nothing wrong with her, except that she was obviously shy and uncertain about whether she was doing alright or not. Most of the classes went by as she stumbled over her words and tried to make her students sit still and shut up. Only class that was even more trying to sit through was History of Magic, with its droning and painfully boring Professor Binns who had actually been _dead_ for Merlin knows how long. Harry quickly found himself appreciating Professors like Snape and McGonagall who, despite being strict and demanding, were at least experienced.

All in all, life at Hogwarts wasn’t _quite_ as bad as Harry had feared it would be. The classes were something to occupy his time, most students were almost pleasant, and Hogwarts’ library was amazing. So, yes, Harry could almost get used to this, if he could just get over the uncomfortably gnawing homesickness he was suffering in his weakest moments.

…o0o…

When Halloween rolled around at the end of October, the atmosphere at Hogwarts faced a dramatic shift.

The usual dullness was replaced with eager anticipation and the classes seemed to pass in a much more relaxed way. Even Professor Snape seemed to find less enjoyment in jeering at his pupils and Harry could almost swear he heard the ever-so-strict Professor McGonagall humming some silly little tune under her breath during her Transfiguration class. It was very bizarre, but oddly nice at the same time.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He had always known that Halloween, or Samhain, or whatever you wanted to call it, was an important part of the wizarding culture. Or at least it was _supposed_ to be an important part, but the Dark Lord had never felt any need to celebrate it.

“Useless waste of time”, he had said once. “If I wanted to appreciate the dead, I would go out and make more corpses. Celebrating it any other way is ridiculous.”

It had made sense, kind of, so Harry had not argued, but the careful curiosity had remained.

After all, it was a feast to celebrate _the dead_. Harry had never quite understood death. Or rather, he understood death, but he didn’t understand the way people reacted to it. One moment a person was here and then, poof, they weren’t anymore. It was simple and very neat, perfectly orderly and logical. But the people who were left behind would mourn; they would grieve and miss, as if it would help. And most of all they would worry about their own death, fear it and wait for it with dread.

That fear of death seemed to overshadow everything. It stalked people, never too close but never very far either. It clouded judgment and guided decisions and choices. People would do _anything_ to escape their set-in-stone fate, do anything to _live_. It was _fascinating_ , and definitely something Harry wished to understand better.

So, when the October 31st turned into an evening, Harry found himself mildly disappointed that there was nothing visibly special about the feast that had been arranged in the Great Hall. Of course, the amount of food was whopping, but so it always seemed to be during the mealtimes at Hogwarts. Pumpkin lanterns floated high above the tables and thousands of candles amidst of them.

It looked nice, Harry judged finally with a small sigh, and accepted that there would be no mysterious rituals and Samhain covens. Besides, a little change to the daily routines was warmly welcome, even if it was just a feast where everyone could stuff their faces with sweets to the point of nausea.

Or at least Harry could and would do so. He was not ashamed to admit that sweets were turning out to be one of his greatest weaknesses. He especially enjoyed chocolate which he had never had before coming to Hogwarts.

At one point, when Harry loaded more chocolate pudding onto his plate, a conversation caught his ear.

“My Gran always took me to visit Grandpa’s grave at Halloween,” Neville was saying, a bit wistful look on his face. “Probably would have gone this year, too, if I had been there.”

“Do you want to know what muggle kids do for Halloween?” Dean Thomas asked, a wide grin taking over his face. “They dress up in costumes and go from door to door asking for sweets.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Ron wondered and shook his head. “I’ll never understand muggles. Mom probably would have liked to make us visit family members on the graveyard too, but we have so bloody many relatives there that it would have taken all night. So, we usually just have a dinner and our great-aunt makes half-arsed predictions about future. Who’s gonna die next and other cheerful stuff like that.”

“Don’t forget the horror stories, Ronnie,” one of Ron’s elder brothers cut in with a cheeky grin.

“Yeah, I remember how you freaked out that one time when...” the other twin began, but Ron was quick to interrupt.

“Shut up, you two!”

The brotherly bickering got a comfortable round of laughter out of the Gryffindors and Harry found himself smiling along. His smile quickly died, however, when the conversation gained a more serious tone.

“Lately there has been nothing but horror storied about You-Know-Who,” Ron said with a small sigh. “And the worst part is that no one even has to make those stories up.”

Seamus Finnegan tried to fix on a smile, but ended up with some sort of a wonky grimace. “Nah, a few years from now those will just be horror stories about visiting his grave on Halloween.”

A cold hand crushed at Harry’s heart. He quickly shoved a spoonful of pudding into his mouth to stop himself from saying anything. The thick taste of chocolate cheered him up a bit.

“Some say he’s immortal,” Neville supplied, silently, almost as if afraid to pronounce the words too loudly.

“Pfft, it’s probably rubbish,” Seamus huffed then, but even he sounded unsure “Part of his cult leader image, you know.”

Suddenly, Harry _really_ didn’t want to hear a word more and let himself get distracted by Professor Flitwick who just then stepped through the doors of the Great Hall. It wasn’t unusual to arrive late, but what caught Harry’s attention was the grim, worried look on the Professor’s face. Flitwick hurried through the hall to the staff table, where he stopped to exchange quick, silent words with the Headmaster.

Harry lowered his eyes back to his dinner and glared at his pudding.

_Immortal_ , the word rang unbidden through Harry’s mind, even though he tried to push it away. It did sound better than _dead_ , especially when speaking about the Dark Lord, without whom Harry couldn’t imagine living, but still, something about it bothered Harry greatly. If only he had known what it was.

Harry let his eyes wander back to the staff table, just when Flitwick took his seat. Headmaster Dumbledore, however, stood up and gave a significant look to his Deputy and the Potion Master, before the old man left the Great Hall quickly and unannounced through a small door at the side. Harry watched curiously how Professors Snape and McGonagall exchanged a look. Something was clearly going on.

But since it was none of Harry’s business, he was easily distracted by Ron’s “Harry, pass me the pumpkin pie, would you,” and then returned to his dinner without giving another thought to Albus Dumbledore’s sudden departure.

…o0o…

The next morning, when Harry arrived to the Great Hall for breakfast with Ron, it was obvious that something was amiss. The usual morning sleepiness and the typical drowsy murmur were replaced by anxious buzz. Many students were wearing solemn expressions and a few were openly weeping.

The Weasley twins sat at the Gryffindor table with ashen faces clutching a newspaper, while Percy Weasley sat on the opposite side of the table with a somewhat helpless look on his face. Ron hurried his steps until Harry almost had to run to keep up.

“What is it?” Ron asked immediately when he reached his brothers and slipped onto the bench next to Percy. His tone was tense and slightly worried. Percy shook his head wordlessly in reply and the frown on Ron’s face deepened and became even more alarmed.

Harry himself didn’t dare to say anything, so he sat next to Ron in silence and reached for toast and jam.

After a few minutes the twins reached the end of whatever article they had been reading and looked over the paper at Percy.

“But—“ one of them began, but didn’t finish.

“How’s—“ the other one tried, but fell silent.

Then Ron seemed to reach his breaking point, stood up and snatched the newspaper from them. He read the headline on the front page and froze with a horrified look on his face. Harry stuffed the half-finished toast into his mouth and leaned in to peer over Ron’s shoulder to see what all the fuss was about.

Across the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ in large black letters read: _Halloween Attack: Ottery St. Catchpole goes up in flames!_

But it wasn’t the headline that caught Harry’s attention, no. It was the large black and white picture underneath it.

In the middle of the picture, on a sea of corpses, stood no other than the Dark Lord, just as dark and tall and intimidating as ever. He was holding his wand loosely in his right hand, whilst gazed impassively at the burning houses in the background. While Harry watched, the Dark Lord slowly turned around in picture and seemed to notice the photographer for the first time. A small dangerous smile rose to his lips, as he raised the yew wand slowly and cast. The picture faded into white for a moment, before returned again.

Harry huffed. “I’d bet he did that on purpose,” he mumbled to himself. The Dark Lord could be unnecessarily overdramatic at times, especially when he knew he had a larger audience. The Dark Lord who made an appearance at the Death Eater gatherings was an entirely different person from the one who preferred to sit in the silence of his study and read.

“ _He did that on purpose_?” Ron repeated incredulously and Harry remembered that he was, in fact, in the Great Hall, surrounded by people, and therefore, talking to himself might not be the wisest thing to do. Right now Ron and the other Weasleys were staring at him strangely.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry assured quickly and offered a small sheepish smile.

Ron let it drop, but only because he had other things to occupy his mind right then. He turned to Percy with a concerned look on his face.

“Any news from Mum and Dad?” he asked and glanced down at the news paper again.

Percy nodded curtly. “A letter this morning. They’re fine. The Fidelius Charm held.”

Ron seemed to slump with relief, a sigh leaving his lips, “Thank Merlin.”

Harry barely heard the exchange, since he was still busy staring at the picture of the Dark Lord. There was something different about him, something that Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint. He still looked half-mad, but also strangely delighted, like he was actually enjoying himself. It was very strange to see such an expression of elation on that familiar face, but it made Harry feel lighter inside.

“What the hell are _you_ smiling about?” Ron’s angry voice asked. Harry looked up and blinked. He hadn’t even realized he was smiling. He quickly smoothed his expression into a more neutral one, but by then it was too late already. “Do you find this _funny_? An entire village was destroyed last night! Everyone who lived there is dead!”

Harry cleared his throat. “Of course I don’t find it funny.”

Ron stared at him silently for a while, before spoke again quietly and accusingly, “I have heard you call him the Dark Lord.”

“I...” Harry began, but stopped because Ron was right. There was no point in denying it. “Yes, I call him the Dark Lord.”

The admission made the conversation around them cease. From the corner of his eye Harry could see how people nearby turned towards them curious to hear more.

Ron’s face adopted an oddly vacant expression, as he pointed out, “Only dark wizards call him that.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I have to call him _something_. That whole You-Know-Who business is ridiculous,” he countered.

For a brief moment Ron hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, and for that one moment Harry hoped that Ron would just let it drop. There were many things Harry didn’t understand, but one he knew that _this_ was not a good topic to be discussing over an entirely Gryffindorish breakfast table.

But it wasn’t Ron who spoke next. One of the twins, probably Fred, looked at Harry gravely and said slowly, “I still don’t hear him deny it. Do you, George?”

“No, can’t say I do. Which does make me wonder...” replied the other twin, good humour in his tone, but eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly.

Harry remained stubbornly silent.

“Oh, Godric,” Ron moaned and buried his face into his hands. “It’s true then.”

Harry didn’t reply. Everything felt suddenly very calm and distant. He raised his mug of Earl Grey and sipped from it. It reminded him of home.

George Weasley is standing up now, staring at Harry across the table, accusing and agitated. He slammed his hand down on the _Daily Prophet,_ pointing at the picture and asked loudly, so that everyone around them surely heard, “How can you agree with _this_?”

Harry looked back at him calmly and defiantly. “I don’t.”

The brief confused silence that followed lasted for a total of seven seconds, before several people started to talk at once.

“But you just said—“ began a girl, whose name Harry didn’t know.

While Ron was saying, “You lying son of a—“

“Leave the kid alone, he’s clearly—“ tried someone who Harry didn’t know either.

It was Percy Weasley’s sharp bark of, “Everyone _shut up_!” that returned the expectant silence to the Gryffindor table.

In that silence Harry spoke, before anyone else could. “I disagree with him about most of his ideas,” he told, glanced at the picture on the paper, and added, “And his... ideals.” His voice was low and quiet, but so steady it surprised even him. “But I will _always_ stand by him because...”

Because why?

Because the Dark Lord was everything Harry had and all he really cared about. Because, despite the Dark Lord’s questionable morals and his murderous rampages, he was still the most brilliant person Harry knew. Because Harry knew that the Dark Lord had his reasons for doing what he did, even though not many understood them—Harry included. Because every passing day at Hogwarts made Harry miss him more and more.

But Harry didn’t want to tell any of this to _anyone_ , let alone a bunch of ignorant and already biased school mates. So, Harry locked all those becauses into his heart and kept them to himself.

“...because that’s what I do,” Harry finished instead and sighed. “And there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

The silence that followed rang hard and true among the Gryffindors.

First one to react was a dark-haired third-year girl, who slowly stood up, eyes blazing and her lips narrowing into a dangerous line. Before anyone could as much as react, the girl had levelled her wand at Harry. Her hand was shaking, but the aim was steady.

“You... you...” she stammered for words, but they seemed to fail her altogether. Instead she let out an ear-splitting scream of anguish. Before she could cast, though, another Gryffindor girl, a friend of hers, grasped her wrist with a startled look on her face.

“Alicia! Stop it!”

“Didn’t you hear, Angelina? Surely you did? He’s one of _them_ ,” this Alicia screeched, loud and distressed. Her unforgiving glare was wild and angry and all Harry could do was blink owlishly back. He had not been expecting _this_. But then again, he hadn’t really been expecting anything, since it had all happened so fast that Harry still wasn’t sure what was going on or what would follow.

“You’re going to get yourself into trouble,” Angelina warned, but she too shot a wary glance at Harry from the corner of her eye.

“He’s a _Death Eater_ ,” Alicia snarled back, like that explained all.

Harry laughed. He didn’t mean to, but it just escaped him, this uncontrollable and cheerful little chuckle.

It was a mistake, of course. Everyone’s eyes were again strained at him, heavy and judging.

“You’re mad,” Ron told him, “Completely mental.

Harry tried to get his mirth under control again and shook his head quickly. “No, I’m not. But didn’t you hear her? A Death Eater? I’m _eleven,_ for Merlin’s sake! As if the Dark Lord would have any use for an eleven-year-old who just about knows how to hold his wand.” Harry grinned and tried to imagine the Dark Lord’s reaction if he ever heard about this utter nonsense. Sadly, no one else shared his sentiments.

Angelina eventually managed to tug Alicia’s wand hand down, but the tension remained. The scowls Harry was receiving were getting more grave and wary by minute.

“People like you,” Ron said next and Harry turned to look at him, “Are the reason why this world is way it is.”

The irritation that had been building up in Harry’s chest turned into a surprising flare of anger.

“Is that so?” he asked sharply and stood up. He let his eyes sweep across the Gryffindors. “And yet here we are. All of _you_ ganging up against _me,_ and somehow this is my fault? Perhaps the world wouldn’t be the way it is, if you lot learned to mind your own business and let other people to worry about theirs.”

Harry had barely made it to the end of his sentence, when a sharp tug at his elbow interrupted him. He glanced over his shoulder and came face to face with Draco Malfoy. Harry was mildly surprised to see him there, especially since it meant that this little exchange had already reached across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table, too. Harry wondered how loudly he had been speaking. Not that it mattered; Harry was well beyond caring at this point.

“Harry, let it go,” Draco told him, his voice urgent and slightly panicked. “You’re going to get yourself cursed, if you carry on like this, you stupid bastard!”

“Shut up, Malfoy. I’m not done here,” Harry ordered and for one reason or another Draco did shut up. Harry turned back towards his house mates. “Clearly, if there is something all witches and wizards are good at it is bigotry and that applies to both sides of this ridiculous little war.”

The tug at his elbow turned into a forceful yank and Harry fell of the bench, stumbled backwards, and barely landed on his feet. He shot an angry glare at Draco who didn’t pay him any attention, but merely shot a small wry smirk towards the rest of the Gryffindors.

“As lovely as this has been, Harry and his opinions is sorely needed elsewhere,” he said and executed an exaggerated, mocking bow. “So, please, enjoy this newest piece of gossip.”

Then he swirled around on his heels, took a firm hold on Harry’s arm, and started to haul him from the Great Hall. When they stepped through the large double doors, the murmur they half left behind had exploded out of proportion. Draco let go of Harry’s arm, but didn’t say anything. He seemed to be in some kind of a strange state between anger and amazement, clearly trying to decide whether to kill Harry or not. Harry let him weigh is options in peace, since Harry himself didn’t feel particularly talkative at the moment.

Their first class was shared Potions of first year Gryffindors and Slytherins. Draco had rather forcefully made Harry partner with him for the day’s task and Harry hadn’t bothered with protests. Somehow, he didn’t think that his Gryffindor year mates would appreciate his company on that particular day.

The class began normally with Snape barking out instructions, orders and insults, and they had quickly moved on to the day’s potion, a healing paste of some sort. Harry half expected Draco to have a go at him, insult his intelligence a few times and move on, but for the first half an hour nothing of the sort happened. When Harry half way through the class dared to sneak a glance at him, Draco didn’t look angry like Harry had expected, but thoughtful.

“Is this silent treatment or what?” Harry asked, mostly out of curiosity, as he turned up the heat under their cauldron.

Draco shot him a sharp glance, but didn’t immediately respond. After a while, he spoke almost casually, but in a hushed voice, so that no one could overhear them, “So, undying loyalty to the Dark Lord, is it?”

Harry hummed in reply and focused to dice the root in front of him. It didn’t really matter one way or another what Draco had to say about the matter; it was too late to take any of it back.

“Do you remember that conversation we had on the train?” Draco continued and mixed their potion thrice clockwise. “The one about you being a daft git.”

Harry huffed, but couldn’t help a small smile. “I don’t think you used the word ‘git’ back then.”

“Well, I _should_ have,” Draco told him firmly, “Because you certainly _are_ a daft git. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Just remembered what you said,” Harry sighed, and tossed the chopped dices into the cauldron. The potion sizzled angrily. “’You will eventually have to pick a side, Harry!’ That’s how it went, wasn’t it? And it’s exactly what I did, too.”

Draco turned to look at Harry with disbelief. “And you just _had to_ do it at the Gryffindor table like that? You couldn’t have just, I don’t know, _been more subtle about it_!”

Harry set down his knife and turned to look back at Draco.

“I am not ashamed of believing in him. I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t killed or any way harmed anyone in his name. I don’t intend to harm anyone in his name, even if he asks me to. This is _his_ war and I will not fight it for him. But I _will_ stand by him through it, because, as I said, that’s what I do. I’ve always done so and always will,” Harry explained. Somehow it felt almost like a vow.

Draco was staring at Harry, clearly pondering what to make of it all. When he finally spoke, all he said was, “I don’t suppose I can blame you for that one.”

“No, you really can’t.”

“It was stupid, though. Just so you know.”

“I know, thank you.”

Silence settled between them again, as they continued working. Harry could feel the glances he received every now and then, and he heard the silent murmurs and conversations. This soon it was impossible to tell how much damage had occurred, but time would show. Although, Harry did grow mildly worried when Ron Weasley shot him a particularly poisonous glare across the room.

“If I’m murdered in my sleep tonight, will you do me a favour?” Harry asked from Draco.

“Depends on what it is.”

“Make sure they mention on my gravestone that I did for the Dark Lord,” Harry told, “Perhaps, he’ll bring a few flowers to my grave.”

It was a ridiculous, of course, but it served its purpose, as Draco let out a nearly startled laugh. He quieted down quickly, though, when Snape shot a crushing glare into their general direction.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the Slytherin promised, smirking slightly.

“Thanks.”

Harry watched curiously how their potion slowly turned turquoise, and skimmed again over the description in their textbook. The colour was about right, but the texture could use some work still. When he let the book lower, he found Draco staring at him, intent and slightly suspicious.

“What?” Harry asked, slightly alarmed and not entirely sure why.

“You know, sometimes when you speak about him, it sounds almost like...” Draco hesitated and shrugged, before finished, “Almost like you actually _know_ him.”

The words surprised Harry some, maybe because he had never really given much thought to it.

Draco may know all kinds of things that baffled Harry beyond belief. He may know what the appropriate way to act in any company. And he may know about the politics of the wizarding world and the reasons behind this war. He may even know how to make this stupid potion thicker and doughier, like it was supposed to be. But Draco knew _nothing_ about the Dark Lord. _No one_ knew anything about the Dark Lord, except for Harry who knew very little, but still more than anyone else alive.

Harry couldn’t help the wide grin that spread on his face, as he purposefully left the implied question unanswered. Let Draco wonder to his heart’s content. Harry was suddenly feeling lighter and happier than he had felt all day.

…o0o…

There were times, more frequently recently, when Albus Dumbledore felt his respectable years weigh upon his shoulders unnecessarily heavily. In uncertain times like these, it was understandable, although, very much unwelcome as well. He simply didn’t have the time to sit in his office and feel the ache spreading in his limbs and wait for the shaky unsteadiness of his hands to pass.

A small sigh escaped Headmaster Dumbledore, as he popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth and chewed on it to calm his restlessly running thoughts.

Sometimes, on days likes these, he had found himself entertaining careful, secret thoughts about retiring. Of course, he’d never actually act on those thoughts—no, the world needed him too much, _especially_ on days like these—but still, the idea sometimes sneaked in, unbidden and tempting. What would it be like, those unhurried and calming days, without responsibilities and constant worrying about everything and everyone? Boring, without a doubt, but also easy and forgiving.

Albus sighed again and let a small wistful smile climb onto his face. There was no room for easy and forgiving in his life, he had lost his right to those things a long time ago. And yet, two Dark Lords in one life time were surely more than anyone should have been forced to handle.

It had been years ago, when they had last spoken, but Gellert had said something that Albus could not quite forget.

“You might have defeated me, Albus, but don’t take that as a guarantee,” Gellert Grindelwald had said, and smiled in that particular way which had always made Albus respond with a smile of his own. “You are _old_ , and the rashness and endurance of youth has long left you. This new Lord will be the death of yours, should you oppose him like you once opposed me. Especially, since he lacks all of _my_ weaknesses, whereas yours have remained the same.”

Ah, Gellert, the stubborn fool. Even when his sanity had deteriorated a long time ago, his sharp mind had prevailed to serve as a memento of the old days. And he was right, of course, as irritating as it was to admit that. This war _would_ be the end of one Albus Dumbledore, one way or another. However, he had made a promise that he would not go down easily and, when he finally did, he would ensure that the Dark Lord Voldemort would either come down with him or follow soon after.

But at this age, Albus could not achieve that end alone and probably the only one who could aid him had just this morning declared that his loyalties laid with Voldemort. At breakfast table even! To be a growing boy at the age of eleven and prioritise a vow of allegiance before breakfast... Well, let’s just say that there stood all the proof Albus needed about the honesty of that declaration.

All humour aside, though, it _was_ very alarming. It was nearly impossible not to detect a pattern here, a pattern of Dark Lords and their ever-faithful vanquishers. Fate, if you wanted to call it that, certainly had a most spectacularly ironic way of running its course.

A silver device on Albus’ desk dinged once then, alarming him to an approaching guest. Albus straightened on his chair ever-so-slightly and politely pushed the bowl of sherbet lemons closer to the other edge of the desk, nearer the chair on the other side. Although, it was very unlikely that Severus Snape would ever accept anything edible he hadn’t prepared himself. Decades of studying the most remarkable potions and poisons was enough to make anyone paranoid of what they put in their mouths and Severus had never been the trustful sort to begin with.

Barely a minute had passed, when a sharp knock at the door interrupted Albus’ good natured musings and the Potion Master stepped in without waiting for a reply.

“Ah, Severus! Good afternoon,” Albus greeted jovially, while in the silence of his mind tried to come up with anything that could have made this particular afternoon _good_. There wasn’t much that would have warranted that particular adjective.

Severus replied with a terse nod and seated himself onto the chair on the other side of Albus’ desk.

“A sherbet lemon?” Albus offered and waved a hand towards the bowl.

“No. You wished to talk,” Severus replied, ever the talkative and polite one, and Albus hummed in reply, reaching for the bowl himself. He popped a lemony sweet in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for awhile, before replied.

“I fear that you were right from the beginning, Severus,” he told the Potions Master. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and gazed over his hands at the man who merely quirked a questioning eyebrow in reply. Headmaster offered a small smile and continued sadly, “Harry Potter might already be beyond our reach.”

“You refer to the little... spectacle this morning,” Severus nodded his understanding, the usual disdain entering his tone.

“Spectacle? Yes, although, that might not be the word I would have used,” Albus admitted and sighed again. “I believe young mister Potter has made his stance on the matters rather clear to everyone now.”

“It would seem so,” Severus replied, his words as few, scarce and unforgiving as always. Albus had to suppress another smile. For some strange reason he did enjoy these conversations with Severus, as excruciating and exhausting as they sometimes were.

If the years had taught Albus anything at all, it was patience, so he merely sat there and waited for the extended silence to work its magic.

And after a while Severus did speak again, “It has caused something of a buzz among the students. Classes today have been... most enlightening, though even more torturous than usually.”

“Ah, I suspected this would happen,” Albus nodded. “After the initial reaction among the student body, I have worried mildly for Mr. Potter’s safety.”

Severus visibly bit back the first reply that crossed his mind, and instead commented dryly, “That is not quite what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“It is no secret that many in the house of Slytherin share Potter’s sentiments,” Severus said bluntly. “Especially some of the older students seem to find Potter’s little declaration rather _inspiring_.”

Albus let his eyes close. “I see.”

How had he not seen this before, however _,_ was a mystery.

After all, it was _obvious_ now that it was presented before him so blatantly. He could almost taste it in the air, the slight promise of a revolution. It was already out _there,_ in the outside world, beyond the strong walls and wards of Hogwarts, so he had suspected it would eventually find a crack to sweep in here, too.

Following Voldemort, and his gruelling and hard leadership, had been a taboo for decades. It was guerrilla warfare on their part. No one knew who they were or where they came from. No names and no faces, an unknown opponent. But the change was already happening. People _wanted_ to make their stance known, they wanted their opinions to be accounted for. More and more wizarding folk wanted to offer their open and unhindered support to the Lord of Dark and his cause.

So far, everyone had been too afraid of the consequences to do just so, but there were people who weren’t afraid, who were unwavering and steady in their loyalty. One day soon those few people would make their stand and speak up. The words they spoke would be heard, and those words would change the world. Albus knew that it was only a matter of time.

When the Sorting Hat had placed Harry Potter into Gryffindor, Albus had been pleasantly surprised. He had _not_ expected, however, that Harry’s special brand of Gryffindor bravery would be declaring his support for Voldermort for the entire world to hear. It was a brave deed, indeed, to stand behind one’s beliefs so firmly, that much Albus had to admit. Still, Albus feared that the deep devotion Harry Potter showed was given for all the wrong reasons, without knowing the other options. That could hardly be called true loyalty.

Nevertheless, if Severus’ cautious warning was anything to go by, similar declarations would be soon heard from elsewhere, too. Albus would have never guessed that this change which he had been expecting with dread could very well start within this very school, right under his nose. Most of the students were still children and too young to decide, while the few who had reached adulthood had grown up in an era of caution, which had made them too careful to choose.

But then again, young people had always been welcoming to new and exciting ideas. All revolutions were fuelled with the burning fierceness of youth.

Albus was too old and blind to see or remember things like these. One day he’d pay dearly for it, but today was not the day.

“I see,” he repeated and sighed.

Albus Dumbledore stood up from behind his desk, ignored the sharp bang of ache in his knees, and crossed the room to one of the high windows, where he stood gazing across the courtyard.

“What will you do?” Severus asked after awhile, curious and cautious at the same time.

“I will do what I must,” Albus replied, sure and serene. He had always done his duty and this time would be no different.

“Potter will not react well, if you try to turn him against the Dark Lord,” Severus warned. “If you attempt anything, he will fight you.”

“Oh, I rather believe that Voldemort has done his very best to make sure that Mr. Potter already mistrusts me,” Albus pointed out, letting out a short good humoured laugh. “I would expect nothing less.”

Severus remained silent for a moment, clearly wondering, but decided to let it go. “You better know what you’re doing, Headmaster, or this little game of yours will once again end in tragedy.”

Albus heard the warning in the words, just as clearly as he heard Lily’s memory behind it. He sighed a little and glanced at the Potion Master from the corner of his eye. “I will try my utmost best to resolve this conflict in a way that allows Mr. Potter to continue on with his life once it is over.”

But Severus had always been sharper than most and more honest in his own indirect way. “And yet, if you feel his death is necessary for your cause, you will not regret it,” he said, and the accusation rang in the words loud and clear.

Albus didn’t reply. He merely hummed noncommittally and thought about the Mirror.

 


	6. The Naming

> _~~Dear Dark Lord~~ _ ~~~~
> 
> _~~Dear You Know Who~~ _
> 
> _~~Dear Whoever~~ _
> 
> _~~Dear~~ _
> 
> _Hi,_  
>  I read about you in the paper. It caused a bit of a buzz here and I can’t even imagine what it’s like out there. Everything seems somehow muffled at Hogwarts, like the rest of the world is so very far that none of it really matters. ~~It’s almost like I’m forgetting what~~  
>  Anyway, Halloween was pretty boring, to be honest. I can see why you never felt the need to celebrate it. I saw the Spider leave during the feast; I suppose he got the news about your celebration faster than the rest of us. ~~Are you alri~~ I hope he didn’t cause you too much trouble.  
>  I miss you and Nagini. I’m glad Yule is coming up.
> 
> _Harry_
> 
> _PS._ _I think my housemates are trying to poison me. Yesterday they had put something in my food, but luckily I could smell it before I ate any. What should I do?_

…o0o…

When it rained in November, it was an icy cold drizzle which fell upon the world.

Harry was returning from the Owlery, running through the soggy school yard, when a vision hit him like a stunning charm from close range. It was the very first time when something like that had happened, so Harry didn’t have enough time to register what it was before he was already falling face first into an ugly brown puddle as the world faded to black around him.

…

_Harry sits by the desk in the Dark Lord’s office and runs his fingers across Nagini’s dark scales. She’s lying on the table top, lazy and useless as ever, but he doesn’t have the stubbornness to scold her. Her presence is comfortable and her frequent desire to seek his company is pleasant in a very strange way._

_:She stirs in the dark,: Nagini rolls the words from her forked tongue so quietly Harry can barely catch them._

_:I know,: he replies and doesn’t ask how she knows. :It has been almost half a century. She must feed.:_

_Nagini pushes some offending documents off the desk to get more comfortable and looks at him from the corner of her eye._

_:I want to meet her,: she declares._

_:That is unlikely to happen,: he tells her, perhaps more sharply than strictly necessary._

_The snake bristles, offended, and Harry has to fight an out-of-place smile which insists on climbing onto his face._

_:I will meet her!: Nagini hisses, and there it is again; that stubbornness of hers, against which Harry feels too tired and old to argue with._

_:She lives very far from here,: he says. :Further than your tiny mind can comprehend.:_

_:And you sent my Snakeling there?: Nagini asks and he can hear her anger rising. :Beyond my reach, within some other Lady’s domain?:_

_:It was necessary.:_

_:Then it is_ necessary _that I meet her,: Nagini hisses and flicks her tongue victoriously, as if that was enough to resolve everything._

_:Why, my dear, if I didn’t know better I’d say you sound jealous,: he teases her._

_Nagini turns to look at him properly, her triangular head titled to the side, and hisses a wordless insult at him. He stares back unimpressed._

_:You talk about her a lot,: Nagini says defensively, :She sounds irritable and moody and not at all likable.:_

_:Oh, I didn’t realise this conversation was about you,: he answers and quirks his eyebrow with false surprise._

_Nagini makes an offended sound, but carries on uninterrupted. :You are sending my Snakeling to her, I know you are.:_

_:It is necessary,: he repeats once more. :I cannot be there and someone has to look after her when she rouses.:_

_:I could handle her,: Nagini mutters. :I_ want to _meet her.:_

_:It will take years before she’s properly awake, so we can have this argument again on a later date,: he says, finishing the conversation because he’s too weary for this._

_He’s grown tired of many things as of late. Whether it was him who was changing or the world which was becoming a duller place, he did not know. He wastes a quick thought on Nagini’s Snakeling, the only person who hasn’t yet ceased to surprise him, but banishes it quickly because he is not here and there are other matters to worry about._

_…_

Harry woke up with a mouthful of dirt and a splitting pain on his forehead. He let out a groan, crawled onto his knees, and pressed both of his hands against his forehead in a vain attempt to keep his head together. It felt as if someone had jammed a fiery knife into his skull and carved his lightning scar anew. It wasn’t a mere surface burn, but it dug deep into his brain and roasted the web of nerve endings and synapses.

However, through the pain and confusion, one thought slammed in loud and clear. _Home_ , Harry’s mind screamed at him, and some of the ache in his head seemed to move on and make home in his chest instead. All the whys and hows might have been missing, but Harry knew what he had seen. The rattle of the fire, the even pattern of scales beneath his fingers, the familiar feel of the room… Somehow, for the duration of that strange flicker, he had been _there_ , at the Manor again with Nagini and the Dark Lord. He had no idea if that quick glimpse was real or not, whether he was Seeing or just hallucinating, but what was certain was that it had made Harry feel homesick to his core more efficiently than anything else could have. Homesickness burned in his chest almost as painfully as the vision had burned in his head.

But he was not there. He sat crumbled in the school yard in a puddle of mud, as miserably alone and answerless as he ever was. It was the simple truth, as horrifyingly discouraging as it was.

Harry carefully lifted his hands from his forehead and struggled to refocus his gaze. His vision swam and blurred when he tried to move, and therefore, it took him a moment to realise he wasn’t alone anymore, but was in fact staring at someone’s knees right before him.

“Bloody buggering fuck,” he muttered, spat out some dirt and tried to concentrate.

“That’s some mouth you’ve got on you, Potter,” the person standing before him said, and Harry lifted his head just enough to take a look at his face. It was maybe a distantly familiar face, a face Harry might have seen in passing around Hogwarts, but he certainly didn’t have a name to connect to it. His robes revealed the guy to be a Ravenclaw and he was older than Harry, perhaps in his Sixth or Seventh year.

“Do I know you?” Harry asked, but the words came out slurred and were difficult to put together. His entire mind felt slow and sluggish and the headache made his focus falter.

“Probably not,” the guy answered, looking down at Harry as if he was something small and repulsive. Which he probably was, Harry guessed as he looked down at his wet, dirty robes. “Fuck, you’re pathetic,” the guy confirmed Harry’s suspicions, but Harry didn’t mind.

“I try my best,” he shot back, and to his mild surprise the guy in front of him huffed a small almost-amused laugh, before offered a hand. Harry accepted the help and let himself be hauled back onto his feet.

As soon as he was standing, he took several mistrustful steps back to get a few protective feet between them. The past one and half weeks had been, well, tough. Harry wasn’t exactly the most popular person in his own house or in the rest of the school. News spread fast and most of the student body seemed to believe that Harry was either a Death Eater in hiding or just evil incarnated. It hadn’t caused any real trouble, per se, since most students merely seemed to avoid him at all costs, but still there were occasional acts of malice. Nothing major yet; a few sharp words or a quickly flicked spell which Harry usually managed to dodge due to years of practice. And yet, it was enough of a warning and Harry wasn’t a fool. After the events that had unfolded, it didn’t seem entirely safe to get cornered by a stranger away from any eyewitnesses.

Harry’s hand snuck into his robe pocket and caressed the silver pocket watch. It wasn’t just a precaution, but a temptation, too. He could be home in seconds and he could use this as an excuse. Just a word and he would be away from here. The vision ghosted in his memory, clear as day, but obscured from his understanding.

“What do you want?” Harry asked, curt and sharp and impolite. An _excuse_ , that was all he needed and then he could be right back there at the Manor. He crossed his arms and glared, forcing himself to seem more hostile than cautious. One sharp word or a threatening gesture from the other would be enough. Harry waited.

“Nothing in particular,” was the good-natured reply from the Ravenclaw, “Just making sure no one has killed you yet.”

Harry’s fingers curled tighter around the pocket watch.

“Thank you for your concern, but it’s really none of your business,” Harry told the other student and realised finally to wipe most of the dirt from his face with his sleeve.

“Perhaps, but the likes of us should stick together,” the guy replied and before Harry had time to get confused he raised two fingers and tapped significantly at his inner left wrist. “There’s a rumour that you’re important to someone high up the chain and I’m not about to take any chances.”

Something about the words rang sour in Harry’s ears and he made a face. “Malfoy, that bloody loudmouth has been talking, hasn’t he?”

The Ravenclaw grinned. “I wouldn’t know, I heard it from Marcus Flint.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Harry, so he decided to blame Draco for it. He was probably right anyway. Malfoy, too, had been avoiding Harry for the past week, solely because unpopularity was more contagious than dragonpox, so it made Harry appropriately irritated that the git had been spreading pointless rumours while he refused to speak to Harry himself.

“If you’re fine then, I’ll be going,” the Ravenclaw said, while giving Harry a glance that suggested that he thought there was _something_ wrong with Harry. “Just remember, there’re more of us than they think,” were his parting words, before he turned and began to make his way towards the nearest door into the castle and away from the rain. Harry hadn’t noticed sooner, but in the embrasure of the door, underneath the high arch waited a fair-haired Hufflepuff girl who offered Harry a short nod before disappearing through the doors along with the Ravenclaw student.

Harry stared after them, unsure on how to feel about the entire encounter, but an out-of-place irritation seemed to crawl from some dark place within him.

_There are more of us than they think_.

The twit had no idea what he was talking about. He seemed to think that Harry would care about how many people had branded their wrists with the Dark Mark or bowed down before the Dark Lord. Harry wasn’t included in the _us_ or _them_. He was… different, somehow. He didn’t belong _to_ the Dark Lord, he just belonged _with_ him. There was a difference, even if no one else would acknowledge it.

The entire world was blind and stubborn and utterly insignificant, and Harry was having a very bad day.

…o0o…

On a Sunday morning in early December an owl brought Harry a small box wrapped in brown paper.

Harry had sent his letter to the Dark Lord about a week ago and he had already began to grow mildly worried as no reply had arrived. Now the mere look of that simple, innocent box sent a surprisingly strong wave of relief rushing through Harry. Theoretically, he was very well aware that there was no reason to worry, since the Dark Lord was more than capable of looking after himself. But Harry knew that news always reached Hogwarts slowly and that most news concerning the Dark Lord never reached _anyone_ because the man liked to keep his secrets close to his chest. Anything could happen and it could take _weeks_ before Harry would hear about it. This permanent state of uncertainty wasn’t exactly making Harry feel at ease.

Therefore, Harry didn’t waste any time—didn’t so much as finish his breakfast first—before he tore the paper away and opened the box carefully. Inside were several small stone-like objects. Harry blinked at the sight, turned both the box and the wrapping paper a few times in his hands, but could not find any kind of explanatory note.

Harry was in the middle of wondering whether this was some kind of test of intelligence or a coded message, when a surprised, eager voice cut his thoughts short, “Oh! Are those...?”

When he looked up, he came face to face with Hermione Granger who was staring curiously at Harry’s present across the table.

“You know what they are?” Harry asked, nodding towards the stones.

“Well, I _think_ they are bezoars, but I have never actually seen one,” Granger replied, blushing. “I recognised them because there was a picture in one of the books I’m reading right now.”

“Bezoars?” Harry repeated, looking at the stones ever more curiously. “What are they for?”

“A bezoar is a potent antidote for most poisons,” Granger told, clearly reciting something she had read and was quite happy to share her knowledge with him. “They’re very useful and quite valuable, too.”

“I see,” Harry mumbled as he turned one of the bezoars in his hands. It didn’t look very valuable or particularly useful, but it suddenly made much more sense why the Dark Lord had sent these. “So, how do I use it, then? Do I make some kind of potion or something?” he asked as he glanced towards Granger again. She was proving to be surprisingly helpful, and Harry didn’t quite know what to make of the fact.

“Um, I’m not entirely sure,” she replied hesitantly. “It’s been a while since I read about them. And it was just a passing mention in my book...” She looked somewhat worried when she said this, almost as if the shortage in her extensive pool of facts was something to be ashamed of.

“Oh, it’s alright. I will just drop by the library and read up on them,” Harry assured and offered a small friendly smile. He placed the bezoar back in the box with the others and closed the lid. _Bezoars_. Perhaps Harry _had_ heard the name somewhere before, too. Harry slipped the box into his pocket and made a mental note to always keep at least one of the bezoars with him.

Just when Harry was getting up from the breakfast table, Granger cleared her throat and suggested hesitantly, “I could help you search? I’m good with libraries and books, and researching, of course.”

Harry gave her a mildly baffled look of surprise. “But why? Surely you have something else to do?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude!” she hurried to say, and the worried crease between her brows returned. “I just thought... Well, um, what I mean is... Oh, never mind.”

Well, if _that_ didn’t make Harry feel foolishly guilty over nothing at all.

“No, it’s fine. It’s all fine. I could use some help, sure,” he said and tried to muster up a sincerely grateful look. “I don’t really even know where to start looking.”

Granger flashed her large front teeth in a disarmingly cheerful smile, and Harry couldn’t help but to reluctantly smile back.

The library had an almost drowsy feel to it on Sunday mornings. Most of the students gladly seized the luxury of sleeping in, and most of the tables in between the bookshelves and in front of the high, decorated windows were blessedly vacant. Even Madam Pince looked less annoyed than on most days and she offered them only one warning glare when they entered.

“So, where do we start?” Harry asked and looked around searchingly, as if hoping that the required book would helpfully jump forward.

“I think the Potions section would be the best bet. Though, I’m not sure if we should search for ingredients or just for any book on antidotes,” Granger replied, and even as she spoke her tone turned into thoughtful musing.

In the end, they sat at one of the tables with half a dozen books spread before them.

“Oh, this looks promising! A whole chapter on ‘Bezoars and other quick remedies’,” Harry said, as he quickly flipped through the pages to check how much reading had to be done. A bit too much, perhaps, for just a quick check up.

“Hmm, let me see that,” Granger ordered, as she passed Harry a book in return. “Here’s a list of the poisons bezoars don’t counter. It might be helpful. There seems to be some awful side-effects if they’re misused.”

Granger eyed through the chapter Harry had found, before lowering the book and peering at Harry suspiciously over the edge of the cover.

“Why would someone send you bezoars, anyway?”

“Oh, I just have a somewhat overprotective—” Overprotective _what_? Domestic Dark Lord? Housetrained megalomaniac? Harry quickly searched for a suitable, nonthreatening term, “—guardian. I might have mentioned to him that I don’t get along with my housemates.”

“Oh,” Granger replied and looked less than convinced. “And your guardian decided to send you bezoars?”

“Well, yes,” Harry shrugged. “It _has_ been a while since he was in school. I don’t think he remembers that pranks are the preferred form of malice here.” Or maybe poisons had been more acceptable and fashionable back then, who knew.

“He actually thinks someone might _poison_ you?” Granger asked, sounding disbelieving.

“As I said, he’s kind of overprotective,” Harry shrugged. And paranoid too, but Harry decided to let that go unmentioned.

Of course Harry himself didn’t believe it had been actual poison that had made his dinner smell strange a week ago. It had more likely been something which would have made his face green for weeks or would have made his tongue swell and left him incapable of speech until a trip to the hospital wing.

Harry had become uncomfortably and intimately acquainted with those sort of pranks recently. His things had developed a mysterious habit of disappearing or randomly changing colour. Outrageous mistakes seemed to pop up unexpectedly in his homework just before it was due or right after Harry had turned it in. His potions combusted without visible explanations and his spells suddenly failed because whenever he was supposed to cast he suddenly seemed to forget the incantation or mess it up somehow, even if he had gotten it right mere moments before.

It was inconvenient and bothersome, but so far no one had taken it upon themselves to curse Harry with anything worse than an occasional _Confundus_ or a bat-bogey hex. Still, Harry slept with his wand beneath his pillow and his trunk firmly locked at all times. He had soon learned not to leave his homework or books unsupervised, too.

What was worse than the whole issue of pranks, however, was the exclusion. It wasn’t like Harry had made friends with anyone, exactly, but he had gotten along with most of his housemates. He had learned to chat with them about homework and classes and other nonsensical topics. He had joked and even laughed with them and now suddenly he barely existed. It seemed to be the popular consensus that if everyone ignored Harry stubbornly enough, he would eventually just go away. They weren’t entirely wrong either, since Harry had found himself spending increasingly long periods huddled in the library or the Great Hall, just to avoid the tense atmosphere of the common room.

“Why are you being nice to me?” Harry asked Granger curiously. “Aren’t you worried that it will be your homework they mess up next, just because someone saw you talking to me?”

Granger observed Harry right back for a second, before offering a strange half-smile. She replied with a question, “Why are you being nice to _me_?”

Harry blinked at her, slowly, and understood. “I see.”

“Exactly,” she replied with a firm nod. “Now, it seems that you won’t even need a potion, but the bezoar works by itself. This is actually quite fascinating…”

Harry let her excited lecture wash over him and subjected himself to her unexpected companionship.

Surprisingly, the day passed quickly. Together they poured over the texts on bezoars and somehow mysteriously advanced onto antidote potions. Harry himself could never claim to be a particularly competent potion brewer, since his attention span was too short and his focus too wavering. Hermione, however, was nothing if not precise and when she explained the details she made it seem painfully obvious and easy. It was a mild surprise to find out that her intelligence wasn’t based all on books, but she also had a sharp and quick mind.

When dinner time rolled around, they agreed that they had done more than enough for a day. They made their way to the Great Hall and sat down at the furthest end of the Gryffindor table and shared dinner—some kind of delicious soup—amidst a discussion about the elective subjects they could pick in their third year. Harry didn’t have any particular opinion on the matter yet, but he found it amusing to listen to Hermione’s ambitions plans to take on as many new classes as possible.

Their engrossed conversation was interrupted by a group of first year girls who passed by their end of the table and didn’t make a secret of their chatter. Harry could catch his own name and Hermione’s, followed by a few quiet and sharp ones which were soon accompanied by a round of laughter. To Harry’s mild surprise the malicious giggles weren’t directed at him, but at Hermione. He watched curiously how an angry scarlet blush took over her face and how she stared intently at her soup, pretending not to hear or see anything out of the ordinary.

“They’re just jealous,” Harry assured, unsure from where his sudden compassion came. “They know that one day you’ll be the Headmistress of this school or the Minister of Magic or something else like that, while they’ll be selling beauty potions in some ridiculous little shop.” That earned him a half-hearted bark of a laughter from Hermione.

Harry had never felt the need to hate Hermione Granger, like so many of their year mates seemed to, but neither had Harry ever desired to be her friend. Now that he actually knew her a little bit after spending hours in her company, he had come to realise that there was something in her hesitantly composed demeanour that Harry couldn’t help but find pleasant. And while her intelligence was a tad bit intimidating and her enthusiasm about magic slightly amusing, she was still one of the most interesting people Harry had met at Hogwarts so far. It felt _bizarre_ that people openly disliked her.

Granger smiled thinly. “It’s not just that. It’s... Well, you were right back then, the morning after Halloween, when you said that both sides of this war are equally good at bigotry.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They like to pretend that muggleborns are alright,” Granger told and looked sad. “They say that it doesn’t make any difference whether you’re from a magical or non-magical family, but... It’s still there. I don’t quite fit in, because there’s just _so much_ I don’t understand. There are millions of things which those who were born in magical families consider obvious, but which don’t make any sense to muggleborns. I just don’t get the jokes about Veelas and wizards or eating habits of trolls. Even the casual conversations in the common room confuse me sometimes.”

She cast a glance further down the Gryffindor table where Brown and Patil were now seated. The almost-angry look sat on her face poorly. “I try _so hard_ , you know. I read a lot just trying to keep up with everything, but somehow I end up reading all the wrong things. Every night I sit in the library and learn one new thing after another and _nothing_ is enough. It’s like… It’s like being in a foreign country without knowing a single word of the local language. You can hang onto that little tourist dictionary and manage, but you will always been an outsider.”

“Oh, I’m... I’m sorry?” Harry stammered hesitantly, unsure how to assure her that she’d be fine.

“Oh, don’t be,” Granger replied and an honest, small smile stretched her lips. “It’s hardly your fault.”

Harry smiled back, almost without realising he did, before he sighed a little. “I have some trouble understanding most things, too.”

Granger blinked, surprised. “Oh?”

“I told you about my guardian,” Harry explained. “I never got to go out much. I mean, I have read about things and heard a lot, but it’s different when you actually _see_ it. Nothing’s the way I thought it would be.”

“Exactly,” Hermione sighed and looked around the Great Hall with a curiously wistful look on her face. “But it’s amazing how there’s always something unexpected and surprising just around the corner here. I wouldn’t change this for anything, no matter how frustrating it is sometimes.”

Harry looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, watched how the orange light of the evening torches cast dark shadows on her stubborn face. When he spoke, the words were careful and hesitant, “You wouldn’t give this up even if it... even if it meant your death?”

Hermione turned to look at him, almost startled, but her expression quickly turned calm and determined. “I’ve thought about it, of course. They warned me about all of this. Professor McGonagall personally visited my parents and told them that if I decided to attend, it might not be safe for me. My parents didn’t really want to let me go and we fought about it a lot. But I was determined to come Hogwarts, because this, well, _magic_ is something I could be good at. And it’s amazing, the things you can do with it.”

She fell silent for a while and Harry didn’t dare to interrupt whatever was going through her brain at that moment.

“So, yes,” Hermione said finally, “I will never give this up, even if it kills me.” When she looked up at Harry and gave him a strange little smile, she didn’t look nearly as certain as she sounded. Fear lurked somewhere behind the determination and left a sour note behind.

Harry forced himself to smile back. “Yes. Neither would I.”

Hermione laughed a little, a melancholic chuckle. “You don’t have as much reason to be worried as I do, do you?”

Harry let his smile fade away into a slight sigh. “Dark magic is still outlawed,” he said and completely missed how Hermione grew tense on her side of the table. “There are spells you still can’t use without there being consequences.”

“But... you wouldn’t use spells like that, would you?” Hermione asked hesitantly.

“It’s not really about using them, is it?” Harry shrugged. “Someone once told me that there is no good or evil, but only power and those too weak to seek it. I think he meant that light and dark magic aren’t all that different, since in the end it’s all just pure magical power. People fear Dark magic because of what it can be used for and that’s why they try to forbid it and forget it exists. Instead, they should study it and try to understand it better. It’s all just magic. The better we understand it, the easier it will be to control it. And besides, people are perfectly capable of causing each other grief with or without it.”

Harry glanced at Hermione to check her reaction, but she didn’t reveal much. Her expression was carefully blank. Harry offered her a small tentative smile. She sighed a little, but offered back a resigned lopsided smile.

“Of course you’re right. It does seem strange to brush off an entire branch of magic, just because it _could_ potentially be used wrongly,” Hermione admitted. “It must have been a very wise person who told you all this.”

Harry smiled, “Yes, he is.”

Hermione gave him a knowing look. “And most likely someone who lives by what he preaches?”

“I’d imagine so,” Harry answered and put on his best innocent act.

The look Hermione gave him was less than impressed, but she cracked a smile, nonetheless.

“You are a strange one, Harry Potter,” she said and shook her head, wild curls bouncing.

“Likewise, Hermione Granger.”

…o0o…

That Sunday was perhaps the most pleasant day Harry had had in _weeks_ , so in a very grim way it was only appropriate that everything went straight to hell sooner rather than later.

Hermione departed after dinner to return to the common room to finish up her Transfiguration essay, but Harry decided not to join her. The common room was one of the most uncomfortable places in the entire castle to be, when almost the entire Gryffindor house seemed to shoot glares and hexes at Harry whenever the chance presented itself. Therefore, Harry reluctantly made his way back to the library. It was a peaceful place, yet public enough so no one felt inclined to mess with him there.

Harry spent the slow evening reading a bit boring—if well written—book on the great goblin wars, until the last remaining light outside had faded and even the magically enhanced torches in the library began to flicker one by one. Eventually he gave up, sighing and returning the book to where he had found it. As uncomfortable as it was to sit in the common room or spend mornings avoiding his dorm mates while he prepared for the day, returning to the house was still a better idea than spending the night wandering the chilly corridors. He would surely run into Filch sooner rather than later and getting expelled was certainly something that would set the Dark Lord off into one of his famous tantrums.

When Harry made it to the painting of the Fat Lady and exchanged a polite greeting, fate decided to slam that door closed in his face.

“Password?” she asked in her haughty way.

“Hogglepock,” Harry told her, wondering who the hell came up with these things.

“Sorry, love,” she shook her head and the entrance to the Gryffindor common room remained defiantly closed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry mumbled to himself, before smiling at the portrait sweetly. “You couldn’t pop in and see if someone could come open the door for me?”

“It’s really against the policy,” she said, pursing her lips dissatisfiedly. Harry fixed an appropriately sad look onto his face and sat against the opposite wall of the corridor, staring miserably at the portrait.

“I understand,” he sighed, exaggeratedly forlorn. “I’ll just wait here.”

“Oh, I do hope you children would look after each other,” the Fat Lady huffed, but gave Harry a gentle smile. “I’ll check, just this once.” Then she disappeared from her frame. Three heartbeats later she stepped back into her painting, this time with a slight frown on her face.

“That’s a no, isn’t it?” Harry guessed.

“They said everyone is in already,” the Fat Lady said and gazed suspiciously at Harry. “You aren’t trying to sneak in, are you, young man?”

Harry sighed and climbed back up from his spot on the floor. “No, I do live here, but I guess I’ll find somewhere else for tonight.”

The Fat Lady looked at him worriedly, but before she could say anything, Harry was on his way. The whole event left a strange hollow feeling in Harry’s chest, but he was too stubborn to let it bother him.

He quickly began to walk back towards where he had come, wondering where he should go. One option was to sneak back to the library and sleep on the comfy armchairs located there, but there was a high risk that he would be found out during the night if the Prefects or Professors were patrolling. The other, and probably also the better, option would be to go to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was probably there anyway and Harry could come up with some rubbish about a dreadful migraine and snoring roommates.

Harry vaguely knew where the hospital wing was located, so he took the first descending staircase he could find and began to make his way towards the first floor. He wasn’t in a hurry, since he didn’t feel tired yet, so he walked down the corridors calmly. He could feel the eyes of the portraits following him in the dark and heard the strange noises of the castle which became apparent only after the noises of life died down as the night fell. It was a bit odd that while his Hogwarts experience so far hadn’t been particularly enjoyable, Harry had come to like the castle itself. It had an ancient peacefulness to it and an unexplainable feeling of safety hidden in the strong stone walls.

Harry’s uninterrupted journey went smoothly until he actually got to the right floor. Then in one of the darkened corridors something flashed by, stopped a few feet away from Harry, and let out a low meow. Harry froze where he stood and slowly raised his wand.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Harry whispered and cold light spread from his wand, breaking the bluish darkness. He already knew what to expect, having heard all the rumours circling the castle, so it was hardly surprising to come face to face with Argus Filch’s infamous cat.

Mrs. Norris stared at Harry with yellow glowing eyes and let out a quiet warning hiss. There was something unnatural in its observation, something too human in its intent gaze. Harry hissed back, just because he could. The cat frizzled with offense, all of its patchy greyish hair standing on end and it let out a loud meow, before it sprang down the hallway as if death itself was chasing it.

Whether the tales of Mrs. Norris’ and Argus Filch’s psychic connection were true, Harry did not know, but what he did know was that if the cat was here then the caretaker could not be far either. The hospital wing was near now, but the cat had spurted right towards it, which was a very bad sign in itself. Harry wavered for a moment, weighing his limited options, before turning around on his heels and running back the same way he had arrived. Just in time, too, since the second he turned around the corner, the approaching steps of Filch began to echo behind him.

He wasn’t sure how far he ran and soon he lost all sense of direction. He ran through one corridor after another, twisted around corners, stopped to listen in secret notches, and passed through long forgotten doors. Only, Filch knew these halls much better than Harry and each moment his wobbly gait seemed to follow at Harry’s heels no matter where he ran. When breath began to hitch in Harry’s throat and sharp pain made its home in Harry’s side, he decided he’d come far enough. He stopped to listen for a brief moment and heard nothing.

Harry slipped through the first door to his left as silently as he could. At first glance it appeared to be an empty classroom, enclosed and safe enough to wait for the situation to die down. Harry let the door shut and pushed a few desks in front it. They were not enough to keep the door closed if someone was determined enough to get in, but it would offer some advance warning and time to prepare. When Harry was satisfied with his handiwork, he turned towards the room to take a more careful look around.

Desks and chairs were pushed to the edges of the room and a smooth layer of dust covered both the furniture and the stony floor. It had no windows, for it was well within the castle and the only door was the one Harry had just blocked with his makeshift barricade.

The room looked ordinary enough, the kind of room you could find in any school, until a glimmer of something from the furthest and darkest corner of the room caught Harry’s eye. In that shady corner stood a high mirror with lavishly decorated golden frames and four equally golden paws which it stood upon.

Curiously Harry wandered closer and as he came near he could see writing carved into the mirror’s frame.

“ _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ ,” Harry mumbled aloud and halted mid step when he realised what he had just done.

He was still several feet away from the mirror, but suddenly getting closer didn’t seem all that good an idea. He _had_ just read loud the strange words written onto a clearly magical object hidden in an entirely magical school. It was very likely that the words were a spell of some sort and now that the words were said out in the open, it was too late to take them back. Harry tried to recall what little he knew about magical mirrors, but nothing particularly useful came to his mind. It was unlikely that it was a malicious object, this was a _school_ after all, but it was still better to be safe than sorry.

Harry took careful steps back and slowly circled the mirror from afar, both cautious and curious at once. The mirror didn’t look very dangerous. It was beautifully made, large and high and ostentatiously ornate, and its golden material seemed to shimmer even in the dark. Neither did it _feel_ dangerous, which was usually a better indicator about the real state of things. Harry tiptoed a full circle around the mirror, checking it all round, before he came to stand before it again. He very determinately didn’t look directly at it while he tried to decide how to proceed.

Harry had heard stories about magical mirrors which trapped anyone who gazed into them. There were also mirrors which forever altered the looks of the person who even glanced at them. Some mirrors were designed to show things and some were meant to make things unseen, and Harry truly had no desire to become permanently invisible. Nor was he particularly keen on getting teleported somewhere, which was also quite likely to happen.

But still. . . It _was_ tempting. Just a quick peak and Harry would know for sure. Curiosity was like an itch, clawing somewhere at the bottom of his stomach. Besides, surely the mirror wouldn’t be _here_ if it was dangerous?

Harry took a step closer, drew a quick breath, and crossed the last of the remaining distance. He kept his eyes firmly closed for three fleeting seconds, before throwing them open and staring into the depths of the enchanted glass.

At first, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was seeing. Himself, yes, that much he could tell by the green eyes, black mop of hair, and the somewhat familiar looking face, but something was different. He looked older, somehow. The change wasn’t in his features, exactly, as much as it was hidden in the reflection’s expression.

Harry tilted his head to the left and the reflection followed.

It was him, Harry, but yet it was _not_. Some slight difference laid hidden in the way the reflection Harry’s mouth was set. Something was off about his relaxed, calm stance. The eyes were the same emerald green, but harder somehow, and colder. Furthermore, the subtle change in age wasn’t the only difference the reflection world held in comparison to the reality.

In his hand the image Harry held a small, black book. It was gently cradled in his hands, held like the most precious treasure of the entire world. On his dark hair rested some kind of jewelled crown, a very fragile and valuable looking thing. In the real Harry’s opinion it looked ridiculous and pretentious, but the reflection held his head high. And the crown wasn’t the only jewellery he wore either. Around his neck hung a golden locket on a thin chain, and on his right index finger was an old looking ring, studded with a strange angular stone. What was even more bizarre than the trinkets and the black book, was the out-of-place double handled cup that peeked out from one of image-Harry’s robe pockets.

When Harry frowned at the bizarre image before him, the reflection replied with a small knowing smile and flipped a page of the black book. The reflection caressed the thin, bone-white, paper gently with his fingertips.

_Knowing_. That was it! It stood there, so glaringly obvious in the looking glass that Harry had stared straight through it at first. The reflection _knew_ something, something very important that Harry himself was oblivious to.

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in the reflection-Harry’s demeanour when he straightened his back ever so slightly. He knew his place in the world, his purpose, and therefore confusion and hesitancy were unfamiliar to him. There was a very calm and serene look in his eyes as he gazed back at Harry and nodded his silent assurance. Then the reflection’s eyes fell back onto the book and his lips moved as if he began to speak, but Harry couldn’t hear a word.

Without a conscious thought, Harry’s hand landed against the cool glass and the reflection glanced up, interrupted. The image seemed to hesitate for a brief moment, before his hand rose, too. Their hands almost connected, only separated by the thin layer of glass, and all the knowledge to satisfy his curiosity was so damnably _close_ that the mere thought of it made Harry choke.

Perhaps the mirror offered him these items. Perhaps all Harry saw could be within his reach if he just knew how to acquire it. But just _how_ could he gain it? Did he have to prove himself somehow? Repeat the words carved into the frame again? Cast a spell? Break the mirror? As the questions ran feverishly in Harry’s mind, he dimly realised that there was very little he _wouldn’t_ do to acquire this offered gift of understanding. Something important was happening right before Harry’s eyes, and he just _couldn’t understand_ what it was.

“ _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_ ,” Harry muttered again. Nothing happened. He repeated the words louder and more forcefully. Still nothing. He fumbled for the wand in his robe pocket and repeated the words again and again, combining them with dozens of different wand movements. But nothing he did worked.

The reflection Harry smiled at him, while mockingly flipping another page in his little black book as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever held in his hands.

…o0o…

Harry didn’t linger in the Mirror room that night.

He had no reason to, after all. Clearly, the Mirror wasn’t about to reveal its secrets to him and Filch’s footsteps had long since faded into the stony maze of Hogwarts. Harry slipped out of the room less than half an hour since he had entered it and firmly decided to forget all about the entire episode.

But the Mirror wouldn’t leave him alone. Throughout the following week curiosity burned in Harry’s mind and he found himself wondering about the strange items more often than he ought to have. He wasn’t sure why, but the items seemed _important_ somehow, crucially vital. Why else would the Mirror have showed them to him? But Harry had no idea what the Mirror actually did or why it had wanted to show those five out-of-place items to Harry. The burning desire to understand what it all meant was like an itch Harry couldn’t quite reach to scratch, irritating and frustrating to the extreme.

Four days later Harry couldn’t deal with it any longer. After classes he dropped his bag in the dormitory, snuck out unnoticed and made his way through the castle. When Harry arrived at the right door, there was no one to witness how he slipped into the dark, dusty, and empty classroom.

The Mirror was still there, daunting and flawlessly beautiful. Harry stepped before it and looked into it, just to see the same vision as he had seen before.

This time he stayed, staring into the depths of the glass, until night fell and the sounds of the castle died down and even longer still.

…o0o…

It became something of a habit over the following weeks.

Classes passed in a fog as Harry’s thoughts revolved around the mystery of the Mirror. He was aware that it was becoming something of an obsession, but couldn’t bring himself to be concerned about it. It was a hobby of sorts, something worthwhile to do during the slowly passing Hogwarts’ days. It was intriguing, a true riddle to be solved; the first magical problem Harry had encountered and which he had to solve himself.

Each day Harry would sit through his classes and finish his homework just like everyone else did, but when dinnertime rolled around, he’d disappear. Dinner time meant that everyone was squeezed into the Great Hall and Harry could pass through the castle unnoticed. It wasn’t exactly against the rules to wander about, but somehow Harry didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing. He wanted to keep this mystifying Mirror a secret for as long as he possibly could. Perhaps no one else knew of its existence; perhaps it appeared only to Harry.

But then time began to run short. The Yule holiday was drawing near and soon there were mere days left before the Hogwarts Express would return to London. The previously curious thoughts about the Mirror gained a new agitated and distressed tone, as the obsession grew in Harry’s mind.

Two days before the train was due to depart, Harry returned to the Mirror at night. He very nearly ran through the maze of the corridors, not caring one bit if someone saw him or not. The castle was blessedly vacant, however, with no sign of Filch or Prefect students or anyone at all in the hallways. Had Harry been in a clearer state of mind, he would have wondered about this, but the Mirror was hazing his thoughts too much for him to notice that anything was out of the ordinary.

When he stumbled through the wooden door of the room after what felt like eternity, he already had his wand in his hand and the words fell from his lips with feverish intensity, “ _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_.”

Once again, absolutely nothing happened.

Harry walked up to the mirror, tapped the Mirror’s glass with the holly wand. Still nothing. He walked three circles around it, stopped in front of it, stared and swore. The vision in the Mirror was the same it always was: Harry himself, older and wiser, surrounded by all these curious and _important_ items. The reflection Harry raised an unimpressed brow at him, maybe not mocking, but way too close to it for Harry’s liking.

Harry’s hands shook and his palms felt clammy. Something quite like desperation was growing in his mind like a tidal wave, washing through everything and dimming sensible thought.

It was just _so close_.

He raised his wand one last time, levelled it carefully and cast, _“Confringo!”_

The mirror shook violently when the blasting curse hit, but did not shatter. A single small crack appeared into the upper right corner, but otherwise it remained undamaged and just as beautiful and flawless as before. As Harry watched, even that small crack slowly mended, the glass growing across the scratch until no mark of the damage remained.

Holly wand lowered and a defeated sigh escaped Harry’s lips.

“Rather impressive,” a voice called behind Harry’s back and Harry jumped up in the air like a startled cat. He spun around and came face to face with the Spider.

The Headmaster smiled at him, as if he had gotten just the reaction he had been hoping for. “I’ve rarely seen such a young student manage a functional blasting curse. Impressive indeed.”

Harry was uncertain how to reply or whether he even should reply. The Dark Lord had warned him that Dumbledore would make his move, but Harry had not been prepared to face the man like this. He was shaken and preoccupied, his thoughts were nothing but a jumbled mess, and _now_ he was supposed to form a coherent reply?

“It didn’t work. My blasting curse,” he said finally and glanced quickly back at the mirror. Of course it hadn’t worked. He couldn’t put enough magic behind it to make it truly effective, even if he knew the incantation. The Dark Lord had always been partial to such curses when he was in a mood for a little destruction, so Harry knew the extent of what they could do.

“Ah, but you see, my boy, this mirror is an exceptional object,” the Headmaster explained helpfully. “It cannot be destroyed by ordinary magic.”

Now that Harry’s grasp on reality was becoming more solid again and the severity of the situation settled in, all alarm bells in Harry’s head sprang to action. Something was off about the whole situation. The Headmaster’s very presence was enough proof of that. How had he even known that Harry was here?

“It is a fascinating device,” the Headmaster said and ventured closer to the mirror from the door where he had been standing.

It dawned on Harry quickly. The mirror was a trap, a bait used to lure Harry here and to make him _stay here_ for the time being. It had been something neat and simple to tempt Harry’s curiosity for long enough, so that the Headmaster had time to corner him. Why all the trouble, however, Harry did not know. The Headmaster could have summoned Harry to his office, had he merely wanted to talk to him. No, something else was at play here.

“What exactly does it do?” Harry asked, his eyes following the Headmaster warily. He hadn’t let go of his wand yet and neither did he intend to, but the Headmaster either didn’t notice or didn’t think it worth a mention.

The old man smiled almost delightedly, as if he found it absolutely wonderful that Harry had asked that particular question. When he replies, Dumbledore sounds a bit wistful, “It shows the deepest and most heartfelt desire of anyone who gazes into it.”

_Shows_? The word echoed around Harry’s skull, hollow and merciless. After all this time and effort and obsessing, all he’d ever get would be this one measly view of... of whatever it was he desired most.

“So it’s useless, then,” Harry realised.

“Useless?” the Spider repeated, sounding almost surprised now. “While it doesn’t grant you your greatest desire, it is still useful in its own way. For some people it offers a glimpse of what to strive for. For some it presents a chance to relive the past—or a future—they have lost. The happiest man on earth could use the Mirror of Erised as an ordinary mirror and only see himself as he is. But what comes to the rest of us... Well, it is very difficult to remain indifferent when our greatest wishes are tangled before us so temptingly, don’t you think, Mr. Potter?”

Harry didn’t deem it necessary to answer. He _had_ just tried to blast the mirror to pieces, and actions always spoke louder than words.

The Headmaster was observing the mirror curiously, as if forgetting Harry’s very presence in the lengthy silence. Harry stared at his back, fingers convulsing around the smooth wood of his wand. Harry was half tempted to toss another blasting curse, just to see if it would work better on human flesh than it did on the cold glass. But even in his confused state of mind Harry could see that those were the Dark Lord’s thoughts that had infested Harry’s mind for a very long time. He had not yet had enough time to develop an opinion of his own about the old man, and against his better judgement he was curious.

“What brings you here, Professor, in the middle of the night?” Harry asked. The words rang loudly in the bare room and called Professor Dumbledore back from his thoughts. The old man turned to look at Harry.

“Oh, I suppose I could ask the same from _you_ , Mr. Potter. The Mirror alerted me that someone had approached it,” the Professor told. “It is here for temporary safekeeping, so I felt it necessary to ensure its safety.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly at the answer. After all, Harry had been coming here almost every day lately, so why had the Headmaster appeared _tonight_ of all the possible nights.

“I wonder, Mr. Potter, what it is you saw in the Mirror. Not many desire to harm it after they have once gazed into it,” the Headmaster said, sounding sincerely perplexed.

The words rolled so easily from Harry’s lips when he lied, that he almost believed them himself. “I saw the Dark Lord.”

The Headmaster gazed at Harry more intently, his eyebrows drawing together. “And why try to break the Mirror?”

“It felt necessary,” Harry told and shrugged. He didn’t know whether the Headmaster would believe him or not, but it didn’t really matter one way or another. Still, he couldn’t quite resist asking, “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Dumbledore only smiled. “There are many who would like to throw a blasting curse at the Dark Lord, but I greatly doubt that you’re one of them.”

“You know nothing about me,” Harry replied and if his tone was childishly defiant, he was only happy to ignore it. The man’s attitude was bordering a bit too close to patronizing for Harry’s liking and slight ire was raising its ugly head.

“Ah, true enough, Mr. Potter,” the Headmaster agreed, good-naturedly, “But remember that I know quite a bit about this Dark Lord of yours.”

Harry eyed the Spider suspiciously, as a hesitant idea crawled from the depths of his mind. It was a dangerous thought, a gamble, the type of game Harry wasn’t meant to be playing. But the Dark Lord was not here to forbid it and Harry was a Gryffindor after all.

“Do you know him personally? The Dark Lord, I mean,” Harry asked. “It sounds as if you do.”

Headmaster Dumbledore tilted his head to the side pensively and a small melancholic smile climbed onto his face.

“No, I cannot say I know him well,” the old man told, speaking slowly and weighing his words carefully. “But I do believe I know more about him than he’d like me to.”

Excitement stirred in Harry’s stomach, like a lazy snake coiling, but he forcefully told himself to remain cautious. It _was_ alarming that Dumbledore had given exactly the answer Harry had wished for; it was one of the very things the Dark Lord had warned Harry about.

Harry hummed his vague reaction, before he replied with feigned nonchalance, “Well, that’s a funny coincidence.”

The old man seemed to see right through his act. His unnerving little smile widened momentarily, and a well-practised curious expression appeared onto his face. “Indeed?”

This was risky, Harry reminded himself. But the game was already on and it was too late to back out now. Harry held the old man’s eyes with an unwavering and hopefully confident stare of his own.

“I know the Dark Lord very well, probably better than anyone else alive,” Harry said, “But I don’t know much _about_ him.”

Understanding took over Headmaster Dumbledore’s face and he nodded sagely at the words. “I see.”

Did he, truly? Harry could only wonder. When Harry spoke next, there was none of the previous hesitance left, each word was quick and sure, “Supply and demand, isn’t that how it works? If you answer one of my questions, I will answer one of yours.”

Dumbledore’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, my boy, I did not come here to interrogate you.”

The smile Harry gave in reply was more like a grimace turned upside down. It hurt his face some, but otherwise felt strangely appropriate for the situation. The old man might not have come here to interrogate him, but he sure did come to snoop, and in Harry’s mind at least the two were not so different from one another.

Harry offered an unimpressed look and dry, simple words, “That can be easily remedied. I’ll go first, if that’s alright with you?”

The Headmaster gave him one searchingly curious look, before he smiled a little and nodded. “Very well, then.”

“What’s his name?” Harry spilled out immediately, sounding far more eager than he had meant to.

If the Headmaster was surprised by the question, he didn’t let it show anyway. He merely clasped his hands together behind his back and observed Harry keenly over those half-moon spectacles of his. For one reason or another, the Headmaster weighed his words carefully and took his sweet time answering the question.

When he finally replied, his voice was steady and calm, and Harry could detect no lies. “Voldemort. He refers to himself as Lord Voldemort.”

“Lord Voldemort?” Harry repeated and the words swirled in the air familiar and foreign at once.

Harry knew that he was not meant to possess this knowledge. If the Dark Lord had wanted him to know, he would have revealed this name to Harry a long time ago. But still, this piece of knowledge was more valuable to Harry than anything else in the world right now, so he accepted it. He took it in his heart and quickly adjusted to the change in his world view.

Voldemort. It sounded appropriate. It fitted well with the image of the Dark Lord in Harry’s head. Harry could easily take apart in his head everything he knew the Dark Lord was and categorise them under the name Voldemort. It came naturally, easily. It was Voldemort who drank tea at nine o’clock in the morning every single day. Voldemort made people disappear in the dungeon of the Manor. Those were Voldemort’s Death Eaters who were waging a war somewhere out there. It was Voldemort who hated nothing quite like he hated incompetence, disobedience, and gnomes.

Nonetheless, something was still missing. Even though the name fit almost flawlessly, there was still some tiny piece of a puzzle that didn’t quite squeeze in with the others. Voldemort, Harry whispered in his head and the name rang with an odd echo.

“It’s not his real name,” Harry mumbled, more to himself than to the old wizard standing before him.

“No, it is not,” the headmaster confirmed. “But it is the one he prefers these days.” He was watching Harry curiously, as if trying to figure out what was going on inside his head.

Harry nodded curtly, accepting it for now. “Thank you,” he said then and meant it perhaps more than he had intended. “It’s your turn now, I suppose.”

The old man didn’t ask immediately, he merely stood there observing Harry carefully and thought about it. Harry didn’t complain, but let the Spider take his time. It wasn’t surprising if the meaning of time—and hurry—diminished some, when one lived as long as Dumbledore had.

Then, after some time had passed, the blue eyes got more intent behind the golden spectacles, and the old man minutely nodded to himself. When his attention landed on Harry again, the smile was gone and nothing but serious interest remained.

“Do you love him, Harry?” he asked, not judging or accusing, simply curious.

The question startled Harry so that for a moment he could only stare, his mouth gaping and eyes wide. Harry wasn’t surprised that the headmaster was _clearly_ breaking the rules—these were meant to be questions about the Dark Lord, about _Voldemort_ , not Harry. It wasn’t surprising how personally intruding the question was, Harry had been expecting something that would be difficult to answer. It was simply surprising that the Spider had to ask in the first place. Clearly he wasn’t as omnipotent as everyone liked to believe.

“How could I _not_ love him?” Harry asked, confusion evident in his tone and expression, as he stared at the Headmaster, demanding an answer.

The smile returned onto Dumbledore’s face, not quite as bright as before and a lot sadder, but it was there. “Indeed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked, sharply.

Yet the Headmaster was nothing but an artist when it came to avoiding direct answers. “How have you liked Hogwarts so far, Mr. Potter?”

“It’s alright,” Harry forced through his teeth. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m merely wondering if you’ll be staying here over the holiday.”

Harry’s entire body tensed and he could almost hear adrenaline whooshing through his veins. His knuckles turned white as his grip on the wand tightened.

“Will you try to stop me from leaving?” he asked, every inch of him ready to react the second it was needed, even though he had no idea what he could do.

Dumbledore made a curious sound, something between a chuckle and a sigh, and shook his head. The expression on his face was a bizarre battle of amusement and frustration. “It might not be the best of ideas, I fear. It would be very unfortunate to have a furious Dark Lord tearing down the wards of this school and I would never endanger the rest of the students in such a way.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that logic. It didn’t mean he’d give up, however. “Then what is it you want?”

“What I want is for you to realise, Mr. Potter, that you have options,” the Headmaster said, and for the first time his tone lost that genial pleasantness he had so carefully maintained, and he sounded like nothing but grave and serious. “And should you ever choose differently, I can offer you protection.”

Harry almost laughed.

_An excuse._

It was the one excuse Harry had been searching for, the only one so loud and clear and undeniable that it would be enough. It rang sweetly in the dusky emptiness of the class room, circling and finally settling upon Harry as a gentle promise of home.

Harry allowed himself a small smile and slipped his holly wand into his robe pocket. The Spider caught the gesture and Harry didn’t miss the quick flash of hope on his face.

“Protection? From him, you mean?” Harry shook his head and caressed the cool surface of the pocket watch still hidden from view. “You really don’t understand, Headmaster, do you? If I chose differently, who’d be there to protect me from you? I think I’ll take my chances.”

Harry didn’t listen to what Dumbledore’s reply was. He let his fingers curl around the silver portkey, beamed at the Headmaster, and let the soft syllables of Parseltongue roll from his tongue.

_:Take me home.:_

When the room swirled from his focus, the last thing he saw was the startled, alarmed look on Albus Dumbledore’s face.

 


	7. Riddle Me This

Harry learned the first thing about the joys of portkeying as a sharp yank somewhere behind Harry’s navel materialized. The next sensation was the nausea caused by the swirling motion, then the sharp ‘ _bang’_ as the portkey’s magic tore him forcefully through Hogwarts’ ancient wards. Harry was only vaguely aware of moving, but he was acutely aware of the fact that the dinner he had enjoyed hours prior was determinately trying to make a reappearance. It didn’t really help that it took mere seconds before Harry was slammed through yet another set of strong wards before he was ruthlessly dropped onto the floor of the Manor’s entrance hall, where he collapsed in an awkward heap.

Harry let out a strangled groan and let his white-knuckled grip on the silver watch loosen. He could hear it rolling across the floorboards before stopping suddenly. Quiet clatter followed before someone picked it up, and then silent steps began to approach.

Harry buried his face into the cool floor and hoped he’d just die quickly.

“Will you vomit?” the Dark Lord— _Voldemort,_ his name was Voldemort—asked, stopping cautiously at a good distance.

Harry gave it some thought, before he was able to reply with some difficulty, “Probably not.”

Clearly the man didn’t believe him, because he stayed where he was. “Why are you here?” was his next question.

“Dumbledore,” Harry answered simply. His stomach churned, but the worst of the nausea was subsiding.

There was second of silence, before Voldemort muttered a quiet, forceful, “ _Finally_.”

Harry lifted his head just enough from the floor to shoot a death glare, which was unfortunately ineffective.

“I hate it when you do this,” he mumbled feebly. Any further protests were choked in his throat as a hand grasped at the neck of his robes and hauled him up. Coming face to face with the Dark Lord sent a surprising spike of elation through Harry’s system and he couldn’t quite smother the grin that took over his face. He knew he was probably in trouble for slinking from Hogwarts like he had, but right now he didn’t care one bit.

“Hi,” Harry greeted, the grin widening into a beam. “It’s been a while.”

Voldemort didn’t particularly warm up to Harry’s sincere greeting.

“Was he with you when you used the portkey?” Voldemort asked, his hand still curled around the nape of Harry’s neck. “Was Dumbledore in the same room?”

Harry blinked at the bizarre question, before nodded hesitantly. “Yes?”

A ghost of a smug smirk flashed across Voldemort’s face at the reply. It was never a good sign in itself and even less so in this context. The Dark Lord apparently didn’t feel the need to explain himself, however, as he merely reached out to press the portkey into the palm of Harry’s hand.  

“Why is that so important?” Harry asked suspiciously, slipping the silver watch back into his pocket almost reflexively.

“Hogwarts’ wards are tied to its current Headmaster, as well as to the castle itself,” Voldemort explained. “Since the old goat is the focus point of the warding hub, the wards are strongest around him. It is mildly surprising that the portkey actually worked.”

For a moment, all Harry could do was stare at the man uncomprehendingly.

Voldemort didn’t seem to notice anything amiss and merely muttered, “This is good news, indeed,” more to himself than to Harry.

“You used me to test your portkey,” Harry realised sourly and didn’t bother to hide his scowl.

“Yes, and the results appear most encouraging,” Voldemort replied, ignoring Harry’s disapproval completely. “And did he hear you speak it?”

“Speak what?” Harry wondered, confusion effectively washing off his frown.

Voldemort’s heavy, irritated glare fell on Harry like a ton of rocks.

It took a moment, but Harry got it. “Oh! Parseltongue? Um, yes, probably. I did speak it, but it was a very short sentence and I didn’t yell it out or anything,” he explained, then hesitated, “Is that... bad?”

The Dark Lord’s reply was snappish and impatient, “Why do you _think_ I designed the portkey to be activated with Parseltongue? There are dozens of other ways to make it work.”

Harry blinked. He knew there was something he was meant to realise right about _now_ , but no epiphanies were forthcoming. He pursed his lips for a moment, pretended to think about it, before asking curiously, “Why _did_ you?”

Voldemort gave him a searching look before realisation dawned on his face.

“Sometimes I forget how ignorant you are,” he muttered more to himself with curious amazement in his tone, before turning to Harry, “There are exactly two people left in the entire world who speak it.”

It took an embarrassingly long moment before Harry realised what exactly that meant. Even then, he struggled to understand. “Snakes speak it all the time,” he pointed out hesitantly.

Voldemort scoffed. “For some reason people never seem to count snakes among those numbers,” was his dry reply to Harry’s weak argument. “Two people, brat.”

_Two people in the entire world_. The more Harry kept repeating that sentence in his head, the more horrifyingly incredible it sounded. It would mean... Well, it meant that there was no one quite like them in the world. It meant that Harry didn’t just imagine it when he thought that he was different from all the Death Eaters and sycophants who flitted around the Dark Lord at all times. Harry was _like_ the Dark Lord, at least in this one unexpectedly important way. Speaking Parseltongue put Harry automatically into the same league as Voldemort. The language Harry had spoken as long as he could remember suddenly gained new significance in light of this earthshattering revelation.

“Oh,” Harry commented finally, sounding just as astonished as he felt. “I thought...” But Harry isn’t sure what he had thought. At least, he had never suspected Parseltongue to be quite so exclusive. Harry mentally shook himself to get his mind back on track. “I still don’t get why it’s so important that Dumbledore found out about it. Isn’t it counter-productive to let him know things like these?”

“It will keep him wondering,” Voldemort replied, as if it wasn’t all that important of a matter. “He’s much less of a menace when he has something to occupy his time.”

Harry wasn’t stupid enough to think that that was the entire truth of it, but decided to let it slide. He had more important things to focus on.

“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” he accused.

“Of course,” Voldemort replied shortly before he turned and started to walk away, as if Harry’s concerns didn’t matter to him at all. Which they probably didn’t, but Harry was full of righteous anger by now, so he could ignore that little fact with surprising ease.

“And you didn’t think it would be a good idea to let me know?” Harry asked, hurrying his steps to keep up with Voldemort’s long strides.

“Letting you know anything is rarely a good idea,” the man told him nonchalantly.

Harry resisted the urge to comment on that. Obviously there was nothing he could say or do to convince the man that he wasn’t actually as stupid and naïve as the Dark Lord thought, but still, it left a bitter taste in the back of Harry’s mouth. As used to Voldemort’s schemes as he was, it was still a bitter pill to swallow that in the very end Harry was just one of those schemes to push around and pull whenever the man felt like he could be of use in one way or another. It wasn’t turning out to be the happy homecoming Harry had been hoping for. Perhaps he was more naïve than he realised, then.

“I have somewhere to be right now,” Voldemort said then, “But once I am back, I expect a full report about the progression of your studies and the proceedings at Hogwarts.”

Harry blinked, startled, and asked, “You’re leaving?”

The man didn’t dignify that with the obvious response.

“One more thing,” he said instead, turning to Harry with a sharp glare, “I heard about your little vow of allegiance.”

At first Harry was a tad confused, but then remembered the morning after Halloween and shrugged a little sheepishly.

“Oh, yes, that,” he commented smartly.

“Yes, _that_. I do not appreciate your rash actions,” Voldemort informed and Harry flinched a bit under the words. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but something, an out of place flicker of approval in the red eyes, distracted him.

“You’re lying,” Harry realised with amazement. Despite himself, and the potential danger in calling the Dark Lord a liar, Harry couldn’t help the smile that insisted on climbing onto his face.

“I am most certainly not _lying_ ,” Voldemort pointed out dryly. “In the future, I expect you to consult me before revealing any of the rebellious little ideas that reside in that head of yours to the general public. Is that clear?” Despite his tone still being sharp and slightly threatening, the reluctant, smug approval didn’t dissipate.

Harry nodded obediently, feeling slightly better than moments before. He replied with, “Crystal.”

Then another thought occurred to him and his small smile faded.

“How did you even hear about that?” Harry wondered. “When I left, you said something… that I was supposed to be your eyes at Hogwarts?”

Obviously, if Voldemort had heard about that little incident, then he already had eyes all over the place, eyes that Harry was utterly oblivious to. It made Harry feel somewhat unnecessary and obsolete. What was his purpose at Hogwarts if it wasn’t for keeping an eye out for the happenings there? Just to study? It was oddly disappointing to find out that in the end, Harry was still useless to the Dark Lord.

“I said nothing about ears,” Voldemort tossed back, uncaring.

“You’re a crafty bastard, aren’t you?” slipped bitterly from Harry’s lips before he could stop the words.

The spell hit before Harry had a chance to realise what exactly he had just said. It broke his nose with a loud audible _crack_ and sent blood flowing with the force of a waterfall. Harry’s hands flew to his face and a pained groan escaped him. His eyes watered and thick, sticky blood poured down between his fingers. It was quite strange, how utterly unaccustomed to it he was. He had been gone for mere months, and yet he had almost forgotten what pain felt like.

“I see you have learned new words in your absence,” Voldemort commented coldly.

Harry gritted his teeth together and, despite his better senses screaming against it, he muttered, “I take back the crafty part. That was the most unsubtle spell anyone has ever used in the history of magic.”

Voldemort cast a last chilly glance at Harry, turned towards the fireplace in the hall, and flooed away before Harry had a chance to say as much as goodbye.

And Harry was left there, alone, forgotten and cast aside, blood running down his face and a dull ache in his chest.

Yes, not quite the homecoming he had been hoping for.

…o0o…

It turned out that the not-so-happy reunion was only a prelude to the trend that would follow. During the following days, Harry barely saw Voldemort as he was often away, and when he did see him the man was distant and reticent. At first, Harry was somewhat confused and hurt, but slowly the realisation dawned that the Dark Lord was acting no different from how he had acted before Harry had left for Hogwarts. It was _Harry_ who had changed and forgotten what life at the Manor was like.

It was a horrifying realisation because it meant that somehow during his months at Hogwarts, Harry had lost something precious. While he had previously fitted seamlessly into the slow, bizarre life at the Manor, he now stood out like a sore thumb. He had forgotten how to live in his own home, how to coexist with Voldemort and Nagini and all the dark, long silences that dwelled in the halls. Hogwarts’ cheerful, easy days had turned Harry soft and mellow, something different from what he had been before.

Going to Hogwarts had been like walking from a dark room into a very brightly lit one. At first the light had burned and blinded him, but once he got used to it, he had seen more than he had ever seen in his life before. Then after returning to that dark, dim room—the life from before—he couldn’t see anything because his eyes weren’t used to the dark anymore. It was disturbing and frightening, and the worst thing was that Harry stood alone with his dilemma; he had no one to turn to. It made him feel awfully lonely for the first time in his life.

If this was what growing up was about, Harry wasn’t so sure he welcomed it.

…o0o…

On the Christmas Eve, they received a guest.

Lucius Malfoy appeared like the bird of an ill omen he obviously was, wearing his usual carefully apologetic expression and displaying his obvious reluctance at being at the Manor in the first place. Harry recognised his brisk walk that was accompanied by the sharp tapping of his walking stick long before he could even see him. Alerted by the noise, he followed after it from the library where he had been reading his text books just to kill time, and caught the man on his way to the Dark Lord’s study.

“It’s you again,” Harry greeted when he caught up with him, before realising that it might be considered quite rude, and added, “Hey.” Then he took a look at Lord Malfoy’s face and took a not so wild guess, “More bad news? You’re in luck; he’s been in a reasonably good mood today.”

“Thank you for your assessment,” Lord Malfoy replied, sounding anything but grateful. His expression was grim and grave, so Harry suspected something more serious was at play here. He was curious enough to trail after Mr. Malfoy to the study. Voldemort took notice of his silent entrance, but didn’t comment, so Harry interpreted it is as acceptance.

“My lord,” Mr. Malfoy said and bowed slightly as soon as he entered.

“So, it is you again,” was Voldemort’s curt greeting. “What is it this time?” He asked, sounding almost disinterested.

“My lord, years ago you entrusted a certain object to my care,” Mr. Malfoy began carefully, “And told me to inform you if—“

Mr. Malfoy didn’t make it to the end, before Voldemort’s indifference had faded and something surprisingly close to alarm had taken over his face. He didn’t let the Death Eater finish, but interrupted with an urgent, “Where is it?”

Mr. Malfoy responded by reaching for something from his pocket and setting it onto the table before the Dark Lord. Harry leaned curiously closer to take a look and what he saw made his jaw drop and his heart skip several beats before restarting again.

It was the black book. The very same black little book Harry had first seen in the Mirror of Erised. It laid there on the table, as innocent looking as it had been in the mirror, but the way Voldemort reached for it indicated that it was probably the most valuable thing in the entire Manor at that very moment. His fingers ran carefully over the leather cover, as if checking for damage, before the Dark Lord raised a displeased, questioning look towards Mr. Malfoy.

“It has been... leaking, my lord,” Mr. Malfoy explained, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.

“What do you mean?” Voldemort asked sharply.

“It has been affecting the house elves,” Mr. Malfoy replied quickly, “I do not know how or why now, but one of them went mad and massacred half of the other elves before trying to set the house on fire. Then it tried to get to the book, but it was protected behind very powerful magic, so the elf wasn’t successful. I managed to interfere before more damage could occur.”

While Mr. Malfoy spoke, Voldemort’s alarmed expression had turned into a very carefully maintained mask of blankness, which usually indicated that he was well beyond furious. When he spoke, the words were somewhat distracted, but coated with displeasure, “A house elf? Of course. They are weak-minded creatures.”

“I interrogated the mad one and it said that the book had told him to do it,” Mr. Malfoy added. “I do not know why they are reacting now. The book has rested in the same vault for decades and there had been no problems before. I came to you as soon as I could.”

Voldemort sat there for a few moments more, then he stood up abruptly.

“There is something I have to check,” he told simply and Disapparated right on the spot, before the echo of the words had faded.

Silence swirled in the room in his wake.

“He does that,” Harry said after a while. “Quite a lot.”

Mr. Malfoy glanced at him, but didn’t reply.

Harry’s eyes were drawn back onto the book that still rested on the table. It was so close now, actually present in the same room and not hidden behind the reflective glass of the Mirror of Erised. Yet, it was utterly unattainable in its importance to the Dark Lord and in the restrictive presence of Mr. Malfoy, who clearly wasn’t sure how to proceed now that Voldemort had so abruptly left without leaving further instructions behind.

Harry’s fingers itched with the desire to reach over and pick the book from the table.

“Surely you have better things to do than wait for him, don’t you?” he asked casually. “If you want, I’ll look after the book until he’s back.”

Mr. Malfoy took another look at Harry and the temptation to accept was obvious on his face, but he still responded with, “It is better if I wait.”

Of course it was. Harry knew that much, but he still wasn’t ready to give up. He shrugged slightly with pretended indifference.

“He’s sometimes gone for a very long time,” he said, and again got no answer.

In his mind, Harry was quickly running over the few facts he knew about Lucius Malfoy, looking for a weakness that would be usable enough to make him leave. The only ones he could come up with were Mr. Malfoy’s blind obedience to the Dark Lord’s whims and his devotion to his family. In the end it boiled down to the question of which weakness was the stronger one. Would Mr. Malfoy prioritise the Dark Lord or his family first?

“So, how has Draco been?” Harry asked then. “I haven’t heard from him since the holidays started.”

“He is fine, I would assume,” Mr. Malfoy replied.

“That’s nice,” Harry nodded back, “I was a bit worried about him, you see.”

That seemed to catch Mr. Malfoy’s attention, but the only indication of it was the slight narrowing of his eyes and the questioning look he cast at Harry.

He would have to tread carefully now, but perhaps, just perhaps if he played his cards right...

“He didn’t seem to take Hogwarts very seriously,” Harry said. “I tried to warn him that it would come back to bite him in the arse when exams rolled around at the end of the semester, but he was more interested in trying to sneak girls into Hogsmeade.”

Harry almost felt bad for lying like this, but then he reminded himself of how Draco had been giving him silent treatment for the last month and then felt a lot less sympathetic.

“Is that so?” Mr. Malfoy asked and something sour had entered into his expression.

He sent a silent apology in his head to Hermione, but decided to press on anyway. If Draco’s reaction on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of the year was something that ran in the family, then it was likely that Mr. Malfoy held some rather anti-muggleborn ideas, too.

“Yes. There’s this one in particular, Hermione Granger is her name,” Harry told, “that he’s been getting rather friendly with. She’s quite clever, that one.”

And just like that a frozen look of incredulous astonishment appeared on Mr. Malfoy’s face, and he obviously didn’t listen past Hermione’s obviously muggle name. There was little Harry could add at this point. He could only hope that Mr. Malfoy’s concern for his son was enough to override his fear of the Dark Lord’s moodiness.

“It’s a pity you have to be here on Christmas Eve,” Harry added as an afterthought. “Since the holiday is supposed to be family time and all that.”

He wondered if he was over doing it a bit now. A misstep could mean that Mr. Malfoy would catch on to what Harry was doing.

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Malfoy replied sounding a bit distracted, before his focus seemed to return upon Harry. “You will pass the book onto the Dark Lord?”

Harry tried to look innocent. “Of course. I will look after it until he returns,” he promised. “I know where he keeps important documents, so I’ll just put it there and it should be safe enough.”

Mr. Malfoy seemed to waver on the edge for a while, before nodding. “Very well. I wish you a happy Christmas then,” Malfoy said lastly, to which Harry replied politely and barely hiding his mounting excitement.

A few more minutes and Mr. Malfoy was gone, leaving Harry alone with the mysterious book.

“Well then,” Harry muttered to himself, walked around the desk, and hopped to sit on Voldemort’s chair, staring at the book curiously. He hesitated for a moment, before reaching over.

Even more startling than the presence of the book itself was the fact that when Harry curiously opened it, every single one of its pages were blank. Not a word was written anywhere, no ink stain marred the sheets. Harry flipped through the book once, then for a second time just to be sure, before letting the cover snap closed. He was disappointed, of course. In the Mirror of Erised this book had been the most important book in the whole wide world, holding within its covers all the secrets imaginable. In this cold honest reality, it was an empty waste of space.

Or perhaps... Or perhaps it wasn’t _empty_ , but merely unwritten? What was it that Dumbledore had said about the Mirror? _To some people it offers a glimpse of what to strive for._ Perhaps this book wasn’t for Harry to _read_ as much as it was for him to write. It was an exciting thought, enough so to banish the bitterness of disappointment.

Harry tilted the book towards the light of the fire place to observe it more closely. Even though the worn leather cover revealed its age, the book was overall in a very good condition. The pages were undamaged and the binding still held firm. As Harry turned it curiously in his hands and flipped through the pages, a small inscription caught his eye.

_T.M. Riddle_

Harry frowned. It was clearly someone’s name, most likely the previous owner’s name, but it was odd that this T.M. Riddle had never actually written anything in what was obviously his diary. Perhaps he had lost it or forgotten about it before he got that far. It didn’t really matter. Either way, Harry could not find any indication as to how it had ended up in Voldemort’s hands and why it was so important to the man.

Harry flipped onto the first bone-white page. He snatched up a quill, twirled it once around his fingers and scribbled down the first thing that came to his mind.

_My name is Harry._

The blue tinted ink remained on the paper for a few blinks, but then the words began to fade as if the paper was absorbing them. Soon the page was just as white and unblemished as before. Harry’s eyebrows drew down in a frown and then climbed up again in surprise when entirely new words started to appear letter by letter.

_Hello, Harry. I am Tom Riddle._

Not unwritten then, Harry thought to himself, as he slammed the book closed and stared at the leather cover, unsure of how to proceed. The strange feeling Harry had always gotten before making a bad decision made an appearance again, but he resolutely ignored it and slipped the book into his robe pocket. He would keep the book for now, but just for long enough to understand why the Mirror of Erised had shown it to him or until Voldemort returned.

…o0o…

The next day was Christmas Day and Harry woke up to an astonishing amount of racket and chaos, as he opened his eyes to the sight of a floor covered with snakes. At first he didn’t quite comprehend what was happening, but stared at this scene for a good two minutes before his brain caught up with reality and the excited hissed conversation going on in the room.

_:Is he awake?:_

_:He’s awake.:_

_:How can you tell? How do humans sleep?:_

_:I’m so hungry...!:_

For a brief moment Harry considered just closing his eyes and going back to sleep to hide from the obvious disaster that was brewing in the room, but unfortunately the general level of noise from the unexpected visitors made it quite impossible. With a heavy sigh he sat up and took a look around, trying to comprehend what was going on. A sudden and absolute silence fell in the bedroom, as all of the eyes in the room fastened upon Harry’s sleepy figure.

_:Would someone, please, explain?”_ Harry suggested tiredly. For a moment the silence prevailed, as all of the snakes waited for someone else to begin, until the room exploded with noise again as they all began to speak at once.

_:He’s definitely awake!:_

_:Explain?:_

_:She said there would be food.:_

_:It’s cold outside. Too cold.:_

_:Yesss, cold isn’t good.:_

Out of all of the dozens of explanations that followed, Harry caught onto the general gist that ‘she’ had told that, for warmth and food, the Manor was the place to go. It didn’t take too many guesses to know to whom they were referring. Thus, Harry called down a house elf to set up a fire in the bedroom’s fireplace to make the guests comfortable before he left the room quickly, all the while raining down apologies for nothing in particular. The snakes didn’t seem to mind him leaving, but formed a bizarre hissing and squiggling pile upon the rug in front of the fireplace and seemed all too happy just to stay right there.

For the next hour and a quarter, Harry ran through the Manor’s corridors, yelling for Nagini as he went. When he finally found her, she was of course where he should have looked first; in the Dark Lord’s study, comfortably curled in the armchair Harry considered his, and deeply asleep. Luckily, Voldemort was nowhere to be seen. He probably hadn’t yet finished with the business that had sent him off in a rush the day before.

_:Nagini! Wake up!:_ Harry ordered her and poked her huge bulk with his bony fingers. _:You have some serious explaining to do.:_

Nagini stirred lazily, taking her sweet time stretching and listening to Harry’s nagging before she deigned to defend herself with a bored, : _It is winter outside, Snakeling, I only saved them_.:

Harry wasn’t convinced. _:There was a runespoor who said he had come all the way from Africa because you asked him to,:_ he pointed out, but Nagini didn’t find this information particularly concerning.

_:I’ve never been to Africa. Perhaps it is cold there, too,:_ the snake replied.

Harry counted slowly to ten in his mind, before promising very calmly, _:If you don’t explain this mess in the next five seconds, I swear to Helga Hufflepuff that I will transfigure you into a stick and snap you in two. You know I can do that, I go to a school.:_

Nagini seemed to hesitate for a bit, but eventually explained reluctantly, _:You go to a school, yes, and I cannot go with you.:_

Harry stared at her frozenly for a moment, before horrifying realisation began to dawn. _:Wait, wait... Do you honestly expect me to take one of those—“_

_:One will do, yes,:_ Nagini butted in _._

_:—Those things with me to Hogwarts simply because_ you _can’t go?:_ Harry finished and got a solid hiss of agreement in reply. Harry could only stare at her in wonder and asked, _:So, is this like a job interview?:_

_:Maybe one of them will catch your fancy,:_ Nagini defended. _:No one will be as amazing as I am, of course, but a few are clever little younglings.:_

_:Nagini...:_

_:Someone must look after you,:_ Nagini stated. She seemed so determined and made it seem like it was such a huge deal, that Harry was on the verge of giving in but the thought of how his housemates would react to a pet snake put a sudden stop to that train of thought.

_:I will not take any of those snakes with me and that’s final,:_ Harry told her in a very firm tone. _:I will feed them and make sure they’re warm for a day or two, but they cannot stay here. Thank Salazar Voldemort isn’t here or he would have made sure you were the Christmas dinner this year.:_

Nagini was about to shoot back an undoubtedly sharp retort, but caught on to something more important. She let out a startled hiss, _:You know his name?:_

Harry mentally cursed his accidental slip, but confessed reluctantly, _:I found out. How do_ you _know it’s his name?:_

Nagini curled into a coil on the chair and stared at Harry with her slit pupils for a moment, before replying, _:I’ve always known.:_

Harry felt offended and hurt, but hid it behind an irritated huff, _:Why would he tell you, but not me?:_

_:How would I know? I’m a snake and many things people do confuse me,:_ Nagini told and rested her head on her tail, clearly preparing to go back to sleep. Then she suddenly added, _:I think he fears that if you know he is human, he will become one.:_

Harry blinked at her, startled and out of sorts. _:But… I already know that he’s a human.:_

Nagini was clearly growing bored of the entire conversation and only answered with a lazy, _:Do you now?:_

The sharp reply was already on Harry’s tongue when he actually stopped to think about it. Something _had_ changed recently, hadn’t it? It was different somehow to think of the Dark Lord as Voldemort. In fact, the whole world felt different, irreversibly altered after Harry had come to connect a name with the face. It was almost as if the Dark Lord had been a strange ghost just at the edge of reality, while Voldemort held some more human aspects that Harry had never come to associate with the Dark Lord. A mere name had somehow changed everything.

But of course Harry had always known that the Dark Lord was a human, somewhere underneath the mystery and death and Darkness. It was ridiculous to claim differently.

_:It’s not even his real name,:_ Harry mumbled as his final argument, before turning to leave the study and return to his more urgent snake problem.

Just when he was closing the door behind him, he heard Nagini’s quiet retort, _:Let’s just hope you never find out that one.:_

For some reason the conversation with Nagini clung to Harry’s mind even when he returned to his bedroom to feed their houseguests as promised. When the floor was littered with dead-looking snakes with bellyfuls of mice in them, Harry allowed himself the luxury of just lounging on his bed, staring at the ceiling deep in thought. After a moment, he reached under his pillow and pulled out the diary he had hidden there. He had not written in it since the first time he had opened it, but the temptation was there.

After a brief moment of hesitating, Harry took the quill from his night stand and wrote:

_Dear Tom, how do you know if someone is a human or not? -Harry_

The words faded. Harry held his breath without even realising it, until new words began to appear onto the paper before his eyes and air escaped his lungs in one relieved exhale.

_You can usually tell by their eyes._

Harry’s heart stopped and the very vivid image of the Dark Lord’s crimson eyes rose to his mind. He raised the quill to write something, but his thoughts refused to cooperate enough to form a proper sentence. In the end he didn’t have to, because Tom Riddle carried on writing unprompted.

_For example, werewolves’ eyes usually hold a slightly yellowish tint, while Veelas can be distinguished by the intensity of their eye colour. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Harry?_

Harry shook his head despairingly and wrote back, _I don’t understand anything anymore._

It took much less time for Tom to reply this time: _From what I’ve heard, that is a very distinctively human characteristic, as well._

And all Harry could do was bury his face into the pillow and laugh, until one of the sluggish snakes lifted its head from the floor and told him to shut up.

…o0o…

That night found Harry lolling about on the floor amongst his squiggly guests, with Tom Riddle’s diary spread out on the carpet next to him. Harry had been lazily writing back and forth with Tom Riddle throughout the day, mostly to find out who exactly this T.M. Riddle was and how he had ended up in a diary. It was very comfortable, in a way, to have someone (or rather several someones, if you counted the snakes, too) to chat with on a dark and chilly evening. Voldemort had yet to return from wherever he had rushed off to and Harry might have felt very lonely and bored, if it weren’t for Tom Riddle’s surprisingly pleasant company.

Around nine in the evening, a few of the snakes decided that they were hungry again and Harry had to call for a house elf to silence their relentless complaining. He called for some tea and sandwiches for himself and mice for his guests. When the house elf had returned Harry thanked it politely and, while sleepily munching a sandwich, watched how the elf stroked the fire and quickly tidied up the room.

He picked up a quill and wrote into the diary, _House elves are lifesaving creatures. I would have probably starved to death a decade ago if it wasn’t for house elves._ It seemed a bit pointless to write something like this, but Harry rather wanted to keep the conversation with Tom alive.

The diary replied with, _You’re a very spoiled wizardling, aren’t you, Harry?_ And Harry could almost imagine the self-righteous, condescending tone radiating from the words and snorted a little into his tea. He prepared to pen his reply, when a silent startled squeak interrupted him.

“Master Harry, sir?”

Harry looked towards the house elf and smiled politely. “Yes?”

“I finds this. Under the bed, sir,” the house elf told him and pressed a package wrapped in paper into Harry’s hands.

“Oh, um, thank you. You can go now,” Harry said to the elf distractedly, his attention already engaged by the unexpected present.

“Good night, sir,” the house elf said and with a _pop_ it was gone.

Harry stared at the package. It was relatively large, soft and wrapped in bluish paper and it even had a neat little bow on the top, just like a proper present. It was the very first actual present Harry had ever received so it felt a bit too offensive and aggressive to just tear into it, so for a moment he just sat there and stared.

_:Is it food?:_ one of the snakes wondered, slithering closer curiously.

_:Probably not_ , _:_ Harry replied, glancing over only to see that while he was distracted, all of his sandwiches had disappeared mysteriously.

_:I wonder where it came from, though,:_ Harry wondered and turned the package around in his hands. Somehow it seemed unlikely that Voldemort would go sneaking into his room to leave unexpected Christmas presents under his bed. Harry’s thoughts were interrupted again as the deep, guilty silence from the snakes registered in his mind. He frowned deeply and cast a look around. _:Where_ did _it come from?:_ he asked, eyes narrowing.

There was a moment of awkward twitching and slithering, before a small dark adder flicked its tongue and confessed, _:There was a bird.:_

_:A bird?:_ Harry repeated.

_:A bird,:_ another snake confirmed, _:With talons and beak and feathers.:_

_:It was scary!:_

_:And huge.:_

Harry drew a slow breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. _:And what happened to this big, scary bird?:_

All snake heads snapped in sync to look towards a large, lazy looking python. Harry followed the example.

There was a moment of thoughtful silence, before the python said slowly and carefully, _:It flew away.:_

Harry smothered a laugh by biting down on his lower lip, before asking, _:It flew away, huh? And none of you ate it or did anything else inconsiderate?:_

Anther thoughtful moment followed, before the python tilted its head slightly and replied more hesitantly, _:Yes, it flew away.:_

After a heartbeat of silence the room exploded with different variations of _:He’s lying!:_ and _:It flew away!:_ and Harry didn’t even bother to try and hide his laugh any more. Still chuckling, he tore the paper from the present and into his lap fell a pool of soft fabric.

Harry blinked, then reached for the slip of parchment that fell from between the many folds of the fabric.

On one side was his name, _Harry James Potter_ in neat, if slightly tilted, handwriting. On the other side the note said simply, “Use it well” and nothing else. Harry tossed it aside, deciding that it was quite useless, and focused on the object itself instead. As he turned it around in his hands and ran his fingers across the smooth, almost liquid texture, it didn’t talk long for the suspicion to set in. It wasn’t the first time Harry had seen one of these, but who and _why_ anyone would send him one was beyond his comprehension. To confirm what he already believed to be true, Harry tossed the cloak over his shoulders and watched with curious fascination how the rest of his body disappeared.

Someone had sent him an invisibility cloak.

Harry reached a hand out, picked up a quill and watched how his bodiless, floating hand scribbled into Tom Riddle’s diary, _Dear Tom, what do you know about invisibility cloaks?_

He flopped back onto the floor and watched how the reply stretched across the page, while admitting to himself that he hadn’t been this content during his stay at Hogwarts or even since his return back home. It was nice, almost like having a friend.

…o0o…

Throughout the next day, Harry kept thinking about the book. He knew that the Dark Lord would return sooner or later and would wonder about where the book was, which meant that Harry would eventually have to hand it over. He didn’t feel particularly happy about it, to be honest. He had grown almost fond of the little conversations he kept having with Tom Riddle and was reluctant to see them end.

Therefore, he came up with a plan to prolong this unexpected friendship he had discovered. It was dangerous and daring, but as the careful idea formed in Harry’s head it took a firm hold and refused to go away.

That afternoon, Harry called a house elf down and asked if it could find or make an exactly identical copy of the book. The elf had fidgeted, eyed the book with nervous fear and stammered over sentences, but once Harry had turned his question into an order it had obeyed.

The thing is that most wizards kept forgetting how powerful the magic of the house elves was. It worked differently, yes, but that is exactly where its strength lay. The elf had snapped its fingers once and just like that, instead of one there were now two little black books on the table. There was _something_ off about the copy, because if felt different from the original; the hum of magic that surrounded the book was gone, but otherwise it looked exactly the same.

Harry told the elf not to speak a word of this to anyone, before sending it away. He knew that should Voldemort ask directly, then the elf had no choice but to tell the truth, but at least the elf wouldn’t go blabbing Harry’s secrets accidentally now.

Harry wrapped the book in brown paper and sat by the Dark Lord’s desk, picking up a quill and a slip of parchment. He rummaged through the drawers until he found a half-finished letter in Voldemort’s neat penmanship and set out to carefully copy each letter one by one. It was slow work and Harry had to start over once, but in the end he had a neat short message finished.

_Keep it where it has been these past years. It should cause no further problems, but if it does, inform me immediately._

No signature, because that’s how Voldemort preferred it. It wasn’t perfect but close enough. Harry’s writing was a bit more wobbly than Voldemort’s but to anyone who wouldn’t bother studying it too closely, it would seem that the Dark Lord wrote it.

When Harry sent out an owl with the package and note to the Malfoy Manor, he had a moment of uncomfortably clear foresight. It was certain that one day the Dark Lord would find out. He would be furious and Harry would pay dearly for this, but for now... For now, Harry allowed himself this little luxury. There had to be a reason why the Mirror of Erised had shown this book to Harry, and until Harry figured out what that reason was it would only keep bothering him endlessly.

When the Dark Lord returned a day later, looking tired but oddly satisfied, Harry told him that Mr. Malfoy had taken the book with him when he left. Voldemort had accepted that with a vague comment about checking it later. Harry carefully maintained his neutral expression, although guilt had taken its firm hold on his mind. He squashed it by reminding himself that it was done and there was no way to take it back.

He could only hope that it was worth the risk in the end.

…o0o…

As it turned out, for a diary of an undoubtedly deceased person, Tom Riddle was unnaturally interested in the contemporary matters. He asked hundreds of questions, inquisitive and intruding, all leading to yet another question. He inquired about politics, weather, and international relations, and sometimes even wondered about muggles. But most of all, he asked about Harry. It would have been flattering how deeply interested in Harry the diary seemed, but Harry kept reminding himself that he _was_ the first person Tom Riddle had talked to in a very long time, so it only made sense.

As fascinating as it was, talking to someone who had lived in an entirely different time than Harry himself, Harry wasn’t stupid. The Diary was a magical object without an owner and found in suspicious conditions. Trusting Tom Riddle blindly would have been pure suicidal madness, so he carefully chose what to reveal to the diary and what to keep to himself. He never mentioned the Dark Lord or Nagini and never spoke about the Death Eaters. Occasionally, he’d slip and let Tom know things he probably shouldn’t have.

One day Harry wrote, _I’d like to see the world. Besides the Manor and Little Hangleton, I’ve only ever been to Hogwarts and once to Diagon Alley._

After that the Diary fell silent, not a word appearing onto its pages for the rest of the night. Harry waited for a while, before he gave up with a sigh and went to sleep. The next morning there was a single line, scribbled in Tom Riddle’s elegant handwriting:

_Why Little Hangleton?_

It was a bit of a strange thing to focus on, perhaps, but Harry was only grateful that Tom had finally replied, so he volunteered information readily.

_It’s a village near where I live. I used to sneak there every now and then, even though I wasn’t really supposed to. Why do you ask?_

This time Tom replied with, _I’ve been there once, a very long time ago._

There was something strange in the entire conversation, so Harry let it go and made a mental note never to mention Little Hangleton again.

Despite the fact that Harry knew talking to a magical object might not have been the best of ideas, he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop. A few times he entertained the thought of returning the diary where he had found it, but always changed his mind before he got that far. After all, as unreal and potentially dangerous as Tom Riddle was, talking to him was very liberating in a way. Tom seemed to understand Harry better than anyone he’d ever run into before. No matter what Harry wrote about, Tom seemed to understand what he meant and why it was important. Despite himself, Harry felt some kind of a connection forming between them during the short duration of the Yule holiday.

Therefore, when the night before the departure of Hogwarts Express fell, Harry decided to take the diary with him when he went back. If nothing else, at least he’d have someone to talk to if the situation was similar to what it had been before the holidays. He could only hope that Voldemort wouldn’t find out before he could return the Diary where it belonged.

…o0o…

The morning when Harry was due to return to Hogwarts, he came downstairs to the oddest thing he had seen in his entire life. The Dark Lord Voldemort sat in his usual spot in the sitting room, sipping what must have been his third cup of tea that morning—judging by his utterly relaxed expression—and dressed in a neat, but entirely muggle outfit.

Harry stopped at the door to stare. He probably looked ridiculous, jaw hanging open on its hinges and eyes wide as saucers, but he was too startled to worry about such things. Slowly he shuffled into the room and towards the tempting tea pot, never taking his eyes off the bizarre sight before him.

When Harry was half way across the room, Voldemort’s eyes snapped up to meet his. Harry froze mid step. Harry wasn’t sure what exactly he expected to happen next, he had never been in a situation like this before, but he sure as hell didn’t expect Voldemort to give him this slow, searching stare, before welcoming him with a simple, “Good morning.”

Harry drew a quick breath, just enough air to blurt out, “Morning.”

“Are you ready to leave then?” Voldemort asked next.

Harry nodded mutely. Voldemort nodded back, before returning to his half-finished tea cup.

Then eventually, Voldemort seemed to grow bored of Harry’s relentless stare and he sighed, “What is it?”

“What are you _wearing_?” Harry squeaked before he could catch hold of himself. He then had to raise a hand to cover up the unruly snigger that tried to escape.

“I do believe this is called a suit, if you’ve ever heard of the concept,” Voldemort replied disinterestedly and drank down the last of his tea before standing up.

“You look...” Harry quickly swallowed the word ‘stupid’ which hung on the tip of his tongue, and continued with, “like a muggle.”

Voldemort made a strange aborted eye roll before replying dryly, “I am aware.”

“ _Why_ do you look like a muggle?” Harry asked curiously, and walked a whole circle around the Dark Lord, taking this bizarre costume in from every angle. Then he muttered, “This is so weird.”

“If you’re quite done, there’s somewhere we have to be,” Voldemort told him.

“We?” Harry parroted dumbly.

In reply, Voldemort took hold of Harry’s elbow and Disapparated before Harry had time to catch onto what was happening.

Harry had had a few previous experiences with Side-Along Apparations before, but it didn’t mean they got any easier with time. It was much like being squeezed through a narrow tube and simultaneously swirling in all possible directions. It took only a second, but by the time Harry’s feet met solid land he already felt quite horrible.

“Rowena damn it,” he groaned grimacing. “Why are all forms of magical transport so bloody terrible?”

“A very interesting question,” Voldemort replied, sounding distracted, “It has to do with the laws of physics and defying them, but I doubt you’d understand it even if I explained.”

“I’m _not_ stupid—“ Harry began, but his sentence fell short when he took a look around and realised where they were. Harry blinked a few times, before asking, “Did you really just Apparate us straight into King’s Cross station?”

Voldemort glanced at the clock on the wall which claimed the time to be 10:25, before replying, “I did.”

Harry shot a quick look around. It seemed that no one had so much as noticed their very abrupt appearance. There were quite a few people buzzing about, but none of them seemed to be paying them any particular attention.

“How did they not notice us?” Harry wondered, astonishment colouring his voice.

Voldemort grasped Harry’s arm and began to drag him towards the platform 9 ¾. “Just pretend everything is as it should be and people, muggles especially, will ignore astonishingly disturbing things,” was Voldemort’s reply to the matter, but Harry greatly doubted he was telling the whole truth. He swallowed the rest of his bubbling questions, however, and meekly followed after the Dark Lord.

“Why did you come here?” Harry asked next, as they walked towards the right platform. He kept casting wary looks around, as the very real fear of someone pointing out that the most feared wizard in the entire country was having a daytime stroll on the station would not leave him alone. This wasn’t _normal_ even by Harry’s standards. This was disturbing and surreal and there _had to_ be some kind of a very good reason for this.

“To accompany you,” Voldemort replied, but Harry wasn’t fooled.

“I managed to get myself on the train in September. I could have managed it now just as well. So, _why_ are you here?”

Voldemort shot him an irritated glance from the corner of his eye. “There is someone I must meet.”

They passed through the hidden gate to the platform. The Hogwarts Express’ fiery red engine was already in its place along with the cars, but the platform itself was mostly empty.

Harry took a look around the platform where they had just arrived. “Here? You will meet someone here?”

“Perhaps not. But I will find her only weakness here,” the Dark Lord told. “I may require your assistance.”

Harry gave a one-sided shrug. “Sure. What do we do now?”

Voldemort guided him off to the side and replied simply, “For now we wait.”

Harry bit back the question ‘how long?’ and instead sighed a little and did as he was told.

As the clock neared eleven, people began to pour into the station through the hidden gateway. First just a few, then more and more families until the platform was almost as lively as it had been on the first of September. Harry glanced at the Dark Lord, but their waiting didn’t seem to be anywhere near over yet. Harry sighed yet again.

The strange thing was that even though Voldemort kept shooting occasional glares at the bypassers, Harry was reluctantly impressed at how utterly ordinary the man could pass for when necessary. Of course there had to be some kind of spells in place, because no one took particular notice in either of them when they walked past, but as far as Harry could tell, Voldemort looked exactly the same as he always had apart from his muggle attire. Still, Harry kept half expecting that one of the people on the platform would suddenly look at them, point at Voldemort and ask ‘isn’t that guy the Dark Lord fellow?’ and then chaos would break out. It wasn’t exactly healthy for Harry’s stress levels, but he knew better than to point it out.

As they stood there, waiting, a family of four passed them by, ushered forward by a fussing woman whose arms were full of packages and parcels.

“Hurry up, Melinda!” the woman was saying when she passed, “And straighten your posture. No lady should slouch like that!”

As she reached out to push a corrective hand between the annoyed-looking girl’s shoulder blades, one of the packages in her hand tumbled down. She cast a look down, sighed irritably and exclaimed, “Now see what happened!”

Before she could make a move to retrieve her fallen possessions, however, Voldemort reached down quickly and easily, picking it up.

“I believe you dropped this, madam,” Voldemort said smoothly and offered the package back to the woman. And Harry swore to Merlin that for that brief moment his heart stopped beating and blood froze in his veins. But the woman only offered a delighted, charmed smile and thanked the Dark Lord politely, fussing a bit about ‘such good manners’ and ‘times like these’. Only when she was gone and the ridiculous feathered hat she wore was nowhere in sight, did Harry allow himself to breathe again.

“Are you doing this for fun?” he asked Voldemort, trying for an amused tone but it came out more accusing.

Voldemort didn’t answer in words, but the look he shot at Harry spoke volumes.

About fifteen minutes of more loitering passed before the Dark Lord was suddenly startled into alertness. Harry took a curious look around, but could see nothing out of the ordinary, so he turned his baffled gaze onto Voldemort again.

“Him,” the Dark Lord said and nodded towards a student in Slytherin robes. Harry squinted at the marked student and realised that he actually knew him.

“Isn’t that Blaise Zabini?” Harry wondered aloud. “He’s in the same Potions and Herbology class as I am.”

“Excellent,” Voldemort nodded his satisfaction curtly. Then he raised his wand and made some kind of complex gesture over Harry’s head, muttering a string of Latin at the same time. Harry could almost feel the magic pouring over his head, running down his arms and spreading around at his feet, until the spell expanded and seemed to form a bubble around him.

“Um, wha—“ Harry tried, but didn’t make it any further.

“Go talk to him,” Voldemort ordered. “Threaten him a bit, make him alarmed. If she’s here, she’ll appear.”

“What am I supposed to talk about with him?” Harry wondered, casting a confused look at Voldemort, before glancing at Zabini again. They might share a few classes, but Harry didn’t think he’d ever actually spoken to him.

In return, he got one of the sharpest, most predatory smiles he had ever seen. “Why don’t you ask about his mother?”

Harry knew the Dark Lord well enough to tell that there was something rotten buried in that suggestion, but decided to do as he was told because he really didn’t have any ideas of his own. It was obviously more of an order, anyway.

“Wish me luck,” he murmured, more to himself than to Voldemort, before departing to make his way towards Blaise Zabini, who stood on the other side of the platform. He was casting looks around as if subtly looking for someone. He was already in his Slytherin robes and his trunk rested at his feet, almost forgotten. When Harry was a few steps away from Zabini, the spell woven around him seemed to ripple for a moment, before it expanded until they both were included underneath it. A muffling charm, then, Harry realised, most likely with something else tossed in into the mix to draw people’s attention away from them.

“Zabini,” Harry greeted, as he stopped next to the Slytherin with a polite smile plastered over his face.

Judging by the look that appeared onto Blaise Zabini’s face, he wasn’t particularly thrilled by Harry’s sudden presence. “If you’re looking for Draco, I don’t know where he is.”

Harry let his smile widen a notch. He hoped dearly the smile didn’t look as deranged as it felt. “Oh, no. I was looking for _you_ , actually,” he told casually and shrugged.

Obviously, Blaise Zabini wasn’t stupid. A frown was slowly appearing on his face and the previously bored disinterest was fading quickly under rising unease. Either Harry’s words or his unnervingly wide smile was making the Slytherin wary.

“What do you want?” Blaise asked, tone sharper than before, but still coolly polite.

“How’s your mother?” Harry enquired with feigned interest, and within the same instant the tip of Zabini’s wand was pointed between Harry’s eyes.

“What the fuck _do you want_?” he snarled.

“Small things, you know. World peace and chocolate for breakfast, for instance,” Harry replied quickly and prayed to Merlin that whatever this was meant to achieve would happen _before_ Harry got cursed too badly. He cast a discreet look around, but Voldemort was nowhere to be seen anymore.

“Don’t you _dare_ play smart with me now. Why the hell do you want to know about my mother?” Zabini asked.

Harry made a face, before replied, “I sure wish I knew.”

Zabini looked confused for a brief moment, but before he could formulate a reply, they were both engulfed in a cloud of perfume as a woman, the most beautiful one Harry had ever seen, joined in on their cheerful little conversation. One moment they were alone and in the next she was there, black hair flowing and ferocious protectiveness lurking in her icy dark eyes.

“I do hope you are not bothering my son, young man,” the woman said with a voice softer than silk, but her eyes were sharp and dangerous. “If that were the case, the consequences might be very _unfortunate_ for you.”

“Mrs. Zabini, I assume,” Harry replied as politely as he could. He was capable of recognising a sincere threat when he heard one, so for good measure he even bowed ever-so-slightly.

Mrs. Zabini’s painted lips stretched in a sugary sweet smile at the gesture.

“Clever lad,” she said and reached over to run two ruby red nails across Harry’s left cheek. Chills ran along Harry’s spine and just like that, he knew that this woman wasn’t only dangerous, but deadly, too. Just when Harry was starting to grow actually worried for his own wellbeing, the familiar figure of the Dark Lord appeared behind Mrs. Zabini and a pale hand holding a yew wand settled onto the woman’s narrow shoulder.

“I recommend, Anabeth, that you keep your undoubtedly poisonous claws off that which I consider mine,” Voldemort said calmly.

It was a very bizarre thing to witness, how the predator became the prey. Mrs. Zabini froze where she stood, her fingers still resting upon Harry’s cheek, and her eyes widened almost comically and her posture grew stiff.

“Mother?” Blaise asked hesitantly. The simple question seemed to shake Mrs. Zabini from her stupor and her hand slowly retreated from Harry’s cheek, returning to her side and curling into a fist. Her chin rose proudly, but when she spoke the words were frail.

“I did not expect to run into you here, Lord of the Dark,” she said and fixed on a smile so forced that for a moment her beautiful face was transformed into something unrecognisable. Her words were obviously chosen carefully, but Harry didn’t miss the boldness hidden in them.

“I am aware,” Voldemort retorted.

Frustrated understanding took over Mrs. Zabini’s face and she sighed. “Which is exactly why you are here,” she concluded.

“Very good,” Voldemort complemented mockingly, before he grew more serious. “I’ve come to find myself in need of your expertise.”

Instead of flattered, like so many others might have been, Mrs. Zabini looked very annoyed by the admission beneath the carefully upheld façade of subdued politeness. “I am not yours to command and you would do well not to forget that,” she said, and some of the natural haughtiness was back in her tone, now that she was growing accustomed to the changed situation.

“One of my great regrets, losing such a talent as yours. What I had in mind, however, was more along the lines of a business proposition,” Voldemort explained.

Almost as if fighting her better judgement, Mrs. Zabini looked reluctantly curious.

“What is this so called business proposition of yours, then?” she inquired.

“A man who must disappear as discreetly as possible.”

“Discretion?” Mrs. Zabini repeated and her smile was the closest to scorn Harry had ever seen directed at the Dark Lord. “Not really your forte, is it?”

“Perhaps. You, however...” Voldemort let his sentence fade significantly into silence.

“In exchange for what?”

“Protection,” Voldemort replied immediately and cast a significant look towards Mrs. Zabini’s confused and worried looking son.

Mrs. Zabini’s entire demeanour seemed to transform as the previously careful curiosity sparked into anger. “The only one from whom we might need to be protected—“ she began, sounding almost furious now and barely suppressing the worst of the bite in her words.

The Dark Lord interrupted before she made it to the end with a simple, “Exactly.”

That one word was enough to silence Mrs. Zabini. She looked almost startled, before her eyes narrowed into slits as she weighed the Dark Lord with a suspicious stare. “How do I know you will keep your end of this deal?”

“Obviously you don’t,” Voldemort told and it was implied in his tone that he didn’t particularly worry about keeping his end. “Should you accept, however, then we are speaking of a timeframe of two or three years, during which you can rest assured that I will stay away from you and yours. If nothing else that would give some time for this one,” Voldemort said and nodded slightly towards Blaise again, “to learn a few spells to go along with his reflexes.”

Mrs. Zabini took a moment to think it over, pearly white teeth digging into her lower lip as she chewed on it, before she seemed to reach a decision.

“Even if I were interested, I will not accept before I know who it is,” she said finally. “There are... limitations that I am unwilling to cross.”

Voldemort answered with a name, “Torgeir Hauge.”

Something akin to realisation and a dozen other emotions flashed in Mrs. Zabini’s eyes, before she settled for cool interest. “The Headmaster of Durmstrang? A most curious aspiration, if you wish to expand onto the field of education,” she commented and quirked a brow.

“I may have found a better suited candidate to take care of his position,” Voldemort said in reply.

“Oh, fancy that,” Mrs. Zabini exclaimed in feigned surprised. “Two or three years, you say?”

Voldemort nodded once and repeated, “Two or three.”

Mrs. Zabini pursed her lips thoughtfully, pretending to think about it some more, but it was obvious that she had made her choice. She confirmed with an exaggerated sigh and a simple statement, “Well, I _am_ between husbands right now. I guess I could do with another.” Then her eyes got harder again and her expression more tense. “After this, I expect not to see a glimpse of you for the next few years, or the deal is off,” she warned.

“Naturally,” the Dark Lord offered a slight nod to Mrs. Zabini, a satisfied smirk appearing onto his lips.

Mrs. Zabini nodded, too, before turning to her son one last time. “I have to go now, sweetie. I’m dreadfully in need of a nice long holiday somewhere dark and chilly. I want to see mountains. Norway, perhaps? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Blaise stared at his mother with a slightly pained look on his face. “Mum, please...”

“That’s my boy,” she interrupted and leaned in to press a kiss onto Blaise’s cheek. Her lipstick left a red smudge behind. “You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?”

Blaise struggled for a moment, before forcing out, “Of course, Mother. I’ll write to you.”

She smiled at him one last time, before turning towards Harry and the Dark Lord again.

She offered Voldemort a small nod and a stiff, “My Lord.” Then she cast a look at Harry and after a brief moment of hesitating, nodded at him, too. Then she was gone, the sharp clicking of her high heels audible even when she disappeared amongst the crowd on the platform.

Voldemort turned to Harry with one final warning, “Try not to do anything stupid.”

“Well, I can try,” Harry promised and offered a small smile, “But I _am_ a Gryffindor.”

Clearly Voldemort didn’t find it as funny as Harry did, because his goodbye was one very icy glare. Then he, too, was gone, the muffling charm and notice-me-not he had cast upon Harry fading in his wake. And thus, Harry and Blaise were left standing there on the platform with absolutely nothing to say to each other. They stood a minute in silence, before Blaise finally shot a sideways glance at Harry.

“So, the Dark Lord?” the Slytherin asked with poorly concealed bewilderment in his tone.

Harry nodded reluctantly. “Well, yes,” he said, before adding, “Please, don’t tell anyone.”

Blaise snorted. “I do like being alive, you know. And no one would believe me anyway.”

There was another awkward moment of silence after that.

Finally Harry couldn’t help it anymore. “Your mother is very, um...” he started, but couldn’t come up with a suitable adjective.

Blaise rubbed the back of his neck, before replying uncomfortably, “I know. _Don’t_ tell anyone.”

Harry thought about it a bit, before suggesting, “Let’s not mention this again. It’s better to pretend it never happened.”

Zabini was already nodding while Harry was still talking. “Agreed.”

They exchanged a look of mutual understanding and resolutely parted in opposite directions.


	8. About Lions and Snakes

_Dear Tom, did you attend Hogwarts?_ Harry wrote in the Diary while on board of the Hogwarts Express.

The only other person in his compartment was Hermione—the only one in the entire school who seemed to be comfortable in enclosed places with him—who was deeply engrossed in one of her text books and therefore very poor company during the long journey back to Hogwarts. Harry was grateful to have Tom Riddle with him, because otherwise he would have been bored out of his mind by now.

_I did, but it was a long time ago_ , Tom Riddle responded.

_What was your House?_ Harry asked curiously, even though he had a rather good guess in mind already. Tom Riddle possessed a remarkable skill for sly and subtle manipulation—that much Harry had learned from their little exchanges—and usually there was only one place where a person of such characteristic belonged to at Hogwarts.

_I was a Slytherin. How about you, Harry?_

Harry smiled slightly to himself, satisfied that his guess had been right and wrote back _, Gryffindor, of course. Only a Gryffindor could be curious and stupidly brave enough to expose all of their secrets to a magical book._

He could almost feel the amusement radiating from Tom’s response, _At least you acknowledge your weaknesses. But what now, my little lion? A Slytherin and a Gryffindor, we’re practically doomed to hate each other._

Harry made a face at being called ‘a little lion’—he much preferred Snakeling, now that it came to it—but wrote back anyway: _Well, that depends on you. I already have my fair share of Slytherins in my collections, I’m not sure I need another one._

_A Gryffindor with Slytherin friends? How deliciously fascinating you are turning out to be, Harry._

If Harry blushed at that, no one had to know. He shot a quick look at Hermione to make sure she was still oblivious to the world outside her book, before writing back: _You are a person locked up in an old diary. I think it is quite obvious which one of us is more fascinating here._

There was a brief moment of silence from the diary, during which Harry had time to wonder if he had written something wrong before new words stretched across the page:

_I have been wondering about that. How did you come by the diary, my little lion? I do not know exactly where it has been all these years, but it is curious that it was you who finally picked it up._

And there it was again, one of Tom Riddle’s carefully worded, dangerous questions. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to trust Tom Riddle completely, and therefore dancing his way around questions like these was vitally important. He had to be careful not to reveal too much, because—as unlikely as it was—there was still the slight possibility that the Diary would reveal his secrets to someone else or use them for some other malicious purpose beyond Harry’s comprehension.

_It came to me by accident,_ Harry wrote after pondering about it for a while _. I thought it was just an empty book and I was surprised when you appeared._

And since offence is the best defence, he carried on with a question: _Why did you write yourself into a book?_

Another brief moment of hesitation from the book followed, before Tom Riddle’s beautiful script appeared again, _I learned something important at Hogwarts and I didn’t want it to be forgotten. It is an old secret, but for some reason it has been kept quiet and forgotten for centuries. I wanted to tell people when the time approaches again._

It sounded ominous, to say the least. Harry frowned at the words for a moment before he replied with: _Tell people what?_

_I wanted to tell them about the Chamber, Harry_ , Tom Riddle responded and Harry’s eyes widened as the word rang a distant, familiar bell in his mind.

_The Chamber? I have heard of the Chamber before,_ Harry wrote back quickly, his handwriting going unusually wonky in his haste.

_You have?_

It was amazing how strongly just two words could radiate surprised confusion. Harry pressed the tip of his quill onto the page and in his eagerness to know more he wrote before thinking about it twice.

_Yes! A long time ago when my guardian talked to me about Hogwarts he mentioned the Chamber. He never told anything much, just said that he’d tell me more if he deemed it important enough._

It was only after the words had already faded that Harry’s heart stopped beating and he realised how much he had just revealed. There were numerous clues about Harry’s life in those few sentences, so to anyone clever enough it was practically Harry’s entire life story in a paragraph. And Tom Riddle was certainly clever enough to figure out the importance of each tiny bit of information. But there was no taking them back now, so Harry could only wait for the response.

_I see_ , Tom Riddle wrote and it was impossible to tell what implications those words held. _Your guardian was wise to keep you in the dark, my little lion. The Chamber is a carefully guarded secret and you should not study it lightly._

Harry read the words carefully and with each word his curiosity only grew. He quickly penned back: _But what is it, this Chamber? Is it at Hogwarts?_

_It is better known as the Chamber of Secrets_ , Tom Riddle revealed _. It is said that Salazar Slytherin built it himself, before he was banished by the other Founders. It is Slytherin’s legacy, hidden in the school. It has remained a secret for a very long time, and the only ones who knew about the Chamber’s existence were the heirs of the Slytherin line._

Harry could feel his interest and excitement increasing. This wasn’t just one of Hogwarts’ many hidden secrets, not just another hidden passageway or invisible door. This was _huge_ and significant, historically and magically important. It was _Salazar Slytherin’s legacy_. It was a well-guarded secret that only few knew about, but now _Harry_ had found out. He was now part of a centuries-old secret society or something. He was onto the big secret of the Slytherin line.

When Harry was busy wrapping his head around this new startling revelation, new words had appeared onto the page of the Diary.

_As I said, this is all very clandestine business,_ Tom Riddle wrote _, which makes me wonder, how does your guardian know about this?_

Harry blinked at the words, hesitated only for a second, and slammed the Diary determinately closed. Just because Tom Riddle seemed to be rather eager to reveal his secrets to Harry, it didn’t make Harry any more trustful of him. Harry had already spilled too many details of himself onto the pages, so it was high time to stop before any damage could actually occur.

Harry stared at the leather cover of the Diary with a million thoughts about the Chamber and the mystery of Tom Riddle running through his head, when a hesitant voice interrupted him,

“Harry?” Hermione asked from the other side of the compartment, “Are you okay?”

Harry’s gaze rose to meet hers and he forced a smile on his face when he replied, “Yes, of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

Hermione frowned a bit, before she started, “It’s just. . .” She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before she smiled back a tense little smile and changed the topic, “Oh, never mind. I think we’ll be arriving shortly. I have to say, I’m quite happy to be back.”

Harry looked through the window into the grey, slightly snowy scenery and nodded, “Yeah, me too.”

It was a bit of a surprise to realise that he was telling the truth.

…o0o…

It was almost strange how easy his return to Hogwarts was. While returning home had left Harry disorientated and uncomfortable for days, he fell back into the rhythm of Hogwarts nearly effortlessly. The classes started again immediately after their return from the holidays and it was almost pleasant to be back to classes, homework, and Snape’s relentless snarling.

During the dinner following his return to Hogwarts, Harry caught Headmaster Dumbledore’s eyes across the Great Hall. They stared at each other for a brief while, before the Headmaster offered a small smile and raised his cup in a cheerful little greeting. Harry wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but decided to take it as a temporary peace treaty, so he nodded back curtly before returning to his own dinner. He wasn’t fooled into thinking that this would be the end of it, but for now, Harry believed that Dumbledore would keep his distance. After all, Harry had made it clear that he could not be kept at Hogwarts against his will, which was perhaps exactly the message that Voldemort had wanted to convey to the old man. It was enough for now, and Harry decided not to worry about the Headmaster until there was a valid reason to do so.

Besides, as the classes commenced, it turned out that Harry had bigger problems to worry about. While Professor Snape had been seemingly satisfied with ignoring Harry’s very existence during the autumn semester, the situation changed dramatically during the weeks that followed the Yule holidays. It was entirely Harry’s fault, too.

The simple and sad fact was that Harry was quickly learning that Potions class was not his strength in the least. During the autumn Draco had mostly helped to drag Harry’s sorry arse through one potion class after another, but since the Slytherin was still not speaking to him and because Hermione resolutely believed that Harry would learn best by trying the potions out for himself, Harry was left to fend for himself.

Most of the time he did alright if he just followed the instructions really carefully and double checked everything, but still, it seemed that he made careless little mistakes all the time that left his potions smelling even worse than they should, oddly coloured, and most likely deadly to anyone who would be brave enough to test them. The only comfort was that he wasn’t the only one struggling.

Still, it was one of the most terrifyingly uncomfortable experiences in Harry’s life when Professor Snape for the first time took a look at his failed potion and tore him apart with sharp words and severe sneers. Harry could only stand there nodding obediently and feeling slightly impressed at how many insulting words the man knew.

If that hadn’t been bad enough in itself to make Harry dread his Potion classes, only three weeks into the new semester his potion to heal blisters decided to explode, despite Hermione’s best attempts at telling him how to cut bat spleen properly. The half-finished, puce coloured potion exploded from the cauldron with enough force to coat most of the classroom and the majority of the students nearby.

A few displeased, disgusted grumbles followed immediately, but they were quickly drowned under Professor Snape’s sharp bark of, “Potter!”

Harry wiped some of the potion from his face with a grimace. “Yes, Professor?”

“Twenty-five points from Gryffindor for your inability to follow simple instructions and detention tonight at seven sharp for endangering fellow students with your atrocious brewing skills. Is that clear?” Snape asked with a spectacularly sour sneer on his face.

“Understood, Professor,” Harry nodded meekly and gave up all attempts at even trying to recreate the potion and only focused on clearing up the mess he had made.

…o0o…

That night after dinner Harry made his way back to the dungeons for his detention. It was the first one he had ever gotten and some of the horror stories about Snape’s detentions in particular that circulated in the Gryffindor common room had him rather nervous, but he kept his expression carefully under check when he entered the class room. Professor Snape was already there, pouring over a stack of essays with a disgusted expression on his face. He didn’t look up when Harry entered, but scribbled a few clearly nasty words of commentary before deigning to acknowledge Harry’s presence.

“You will scrub the leech tanks, every single one of them, and without magic. I will check your work before you are allowed to leave,” Professor Snape instructed shortly before nodding at the tanks that were stored on a shelf in the back of the room. Harry suppressed a frustrated groan and merely nodded his understanding.

It was kind of relaxing once Harry got the hang of it. Of course it was nasty and slimy and utterly disgusting, too, but there was something methodically calming in the simple physical work. Scrub, scrub, scrub, rinse and repeat. Harry worked his way through one tank at the time and let his mind wander to his Transfiguration homework just to pass time quicker.

Sometimes Professor Snape would interrupt the silence with some frustrated grumbling and a couple of carefully chosen swears, but mostly the first hour passed in silence. Harry was about halfway through his work, when a sudden and obvious groan of pain from Professor Snape made him stop and glance up. There was a slight grimace on the Potion Master’s face, but when he caught Harry’s gaze he only barked a sharp, “Back to work, Potter!” before he seemed to return to the essays he was working on.

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly and was about to carry on with his boring task when, just from the corner of his eye, he caught a slight movement as Professor Snape slowly flexed his left hand’s fingers. It would make sense if after hours of writing acerbic commentary onto students’ essays the Professor felt the need to flex his fingers, but the fact remained that he was very much right-handed.

Harry slowly picked up the sponge again, but kept his eyes subtly on Professor Snape. A cautious suspicion was rising in Harry’s mind and he didn’t even try to push it away. A couple minutes later Snape did it again, flexed his left hand’s fingers and seemed to shake his arm a little. Harry’s eyes narrowed. After the same thing had come to pass a couple more times within the next ten minutes, Harry was pretty certain that he knew what was going on. He considered his options for a brief while, before slowly letting the sponge drop into the soapy bucket and began to walk towards Professor Snape’s desk.

Snape noticed his approach when he was about halfway there and in his snidest voice the Professor said, “Had enough already? Unfortunately, you are nowhere near done, so get back to work before—“

Harry interrupted him curtly, “He’s summoning you, isn’t he?”

Harry had to hand it to the man, if he was surprised at all, he didn’t let it show. Professor Snape cast at Harry the most spectacularly hateful glare before snarling, “If you believe that nattering nonsense will get you out of this, you are sadly mistaken, Potter. Back to work. _Now_.”

If Harry hadn’t been both stubborn and clearly out of his mind, he would have probably backed off by now. But because he believed quite firmly that he was right, he flicked his wand in a quick spell that lifted up Snape’s left sleeve just enough to reveal the ugly, black shape of the Dark Mark. It seemed to be moving in the dim light and the skin around it looked red and angry, which indicated that Voldemort was, indeed, summoning his followers to his side.

“You _dare_ —“ Professor Snape snarled, but Harry ignored him with ease. He had gotten snarled at for the majority of his relatively short life, so he had developed a rather good immunity to sharp words and threatening looks.

“He hates tardiness,” Harry commented casually, “so you are in more trouble than I am right now.”

Professor Snape seemed to freeze at the words like Harry had just hit him with a petrification charm. Harry offered the Potion Master a slightly dry smile.

“I don’t give a damn about your dirty little secrets,” Harry told simply, “But his are rather important to me. If he’s summoning you, go to him. I will finish up with the scrubbing and cover for you if necessary.”

As temperamentally difficult as Professor Snape was, he wasn’t a stupid man. After a moment of hesitation he offered Harry a slight nod of understanding.

“I expect each of those leech tanks to sparkle when I get back or it will be a week of detention for you,” he said as one last final warning.

“Of course,” Harry replied with a small, one-shouldered shrug.

Then Professor Snape turned towards the fireplace and for a moment the fire flashed green before the man was gone. Harry stood there in the middle of the classroom for a while, marvelling at how small a place the wizarding world was before returning to his joyful work.

How he had never before suspected that Professor Snape was a Death Eater was beyond him. Now that Harry really thought about it, the man did fit the general mould rather well: menacing, bad -tempered, and with an obvious preference to black clothing, all clear signs of a Death Eater. Besides, Voldemort valued great talent highly, so it was not surprising if such a skilled Potion Master as Snape had gained his favour. The only thing that really didn’t fit in the puzzle was the fact that Snape taught at Hogwarts, right under Albus Dumbledore’s nose. These were dangerous times and there was no doubt that Dumbledore ran background checks on everyone who applied to teach at the school. How Snape had slipped past his net was a baffling mystery. Or perhaps Dumbledore knew already, but for some reason allowed Severus Snape to remain at Hogwarts anyway. That would mean that it was either an outrageous case of nepotism or Snape held another value for the Headmaster, other than just his potion brewing skills.

_A spy_ , Harry realised with surprise. Professor Snape worked for both sides, which meant that he was most likely a spy. But for which side, Harry couldn’t even begin to guess. It suddenly made sense why Voldemort had told Harry not to trust Severus Snape.

Furthermore, if nothing else, Harry had at least found the ears the Dark Lord had within Hogwarts’ walls. Harry allowed himself a small victorious smirk and returned to his scrubbing with twice the determination than before.

…o0o…

After that unexpectedly interesting detention, Professor Snape went back to his old habit of ignoring Harry completely for a couple of weeks before he seemed to realise that Harry did intend to keep his word that Snape’s questionable loyalties would stay secret. Then he went right back into his sneering and barking, but Harry didn’t mind because he knew now that, no matter how intimidating Snape could get, he too was terrified of the Dark Lord’s anger.

Once Snape’s connection to the Dark Lord had been revealed to Harry, it was like a flood gate had opened. He started to see the signs all around Hogwarts. One of the Seventh Year Slytherin girls wore a bracelet with a pendant on it that looked suspiciously like the Dark Mark. A Hufflepuff Sixth Year was called away for a weekend on family business and when he came back, he looked grim and seemed to be particularly careful with his left arm. The rumours said that an unknown Fourth Year Gryffindor had gotten a month of detention from Professor McGonagall for scribbling a Dark Mark into their notebook one day. Groups seemed to be forming—within the Sixth and Seventh Years in particular—that mingled mostly amongst themselves and for some unknown reason appeared to dislike each other with a passion. As the winter slowly turned to spring someone set loose rumours that there was a Duelling Club for the users of Dark Magic that took place somewhere in the hidden corners of Hogwarts.

Harry wasn’t sure how much of the rumours were true and how much was just paranoid provocation, but now that he actually looked, he couldn’t deny it. The Dark Lord’s support was surprisingly far and wide in Hogwarts and as the year progressed it seemed to become more obvious, as if those who were loyal became less and less concerned about getting caught. In a way it made sense, too. After all, the Seventh Years were almost done with their schooling and in a few months they would be out there, in the real world.

…o0o…

Then one morning in March there was a Dark Mark plastered upon the wall in the Great Hall when the students arrived for breakfast. It was not a very pretty one, magically painted by a not very talented artist, but still easily recognisable and unquestionably threatening. The skull’s jaw opened and the snake slithered forth, and Harry was reluctantly impressed that someone spent probably their entire night on this monstrosity.

The Headmaster had already been summoned and when he arrived, his steps hurried and a grim expression on his face, he cast one look upon the Dark Mark before turning to the students who had gathered in the Great Hall and spoke:

“Today all students will enjoy their breakfast in their common rooms,” the Headmaster’s magically enhanced voice boomed. “But sadly, classes will continue according to the timetables.”

There were a few disappointed groans all around before everyone began to shuffle out of the Great Hall and towards their own houses. Harry cast one final look upon the Dark Mark on the wall and wondered why in the name of Merlin anyone would want _that_ permanently tattooed on their skin. He shook his head a little in wonder before following after his house mates.

Hermione spotted him among the crowd and waded her way through the masses of people to him.

“Well, that was interesting,” she muttered in a lowered tone. “Who do you think did it?”

Harry shrugged a little. “Could be anyone really,” he said truthfully. It was impossible to tell how many of the students in Hogwarts harboured some degree of loyalty to the Dark Lord, so it was difficult to even begin to guess who it might have been. “For all we know it could be a prank. Someone might have hoped to get out of their classes with this or something,” Harry added.

“I guess,” Hermione replied, but sounded doubtful.

Harry glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “It wasn’t me, you know,” he told her.

Hermione blushed a little but shook her head quickly, “I didn’t think so. You have already made your opinion clear enough so there’s really no reason for you to sneak out at night to paint rebellious symbols on the walls, is there?”

Harry offered her a small lopsided grin, “I can’t draw even stick figures, so I wouldn’t even try.”

Hermione flashed her large front teeth in a disarmingly cheerful smile.

“What the hell are you two smiling about?” asked an irritated voice nearby and they both turned to look. It was Ron Weasley, casting a sour look at them with angry redness blooming on his face.

“I mean, Potter I can understand, but why you? You seemed so normal!” he asked, pointing the question at Hermione who merely raised a challenging eyebrow.

“I don’t really see how our private conversations are any of your business, really,” Hermione shot back.

“Perhaps it isn’t, yeah,” Ron replied, “But who knows, it might have been him who did it. Do you really want to hang out with someone like that?” Ron nodded towards Harry even though his eyes were still on Hermione. Harry had become rather used to being ignored by now, but it was still irritating to be excluded from a conversation that was strictly about him.

“Standing right here, you know,” Harry muttered, but neither Hermione nor Ron listened to him. Harry discreetly grasped Hermione’s arm and tried to tug her away from what seemed to be brewing into a full blown fight.

“ _It might have been him?_ ” Hermione repeated, her voice rising a bit higher. “What an astonishingly solid argument! It might have been you, for all we know! There is no evidence—“

“We _know_ he’s a Death Eater!” Ron interrupted. “If that isn’t enough evidence, then I don’t what is!”

“Oh, this again,” Harry commented and helpfully reached to pull his left sleeve up just enough to reveal his unmarked wrist. “See? Not a Death Eater.”

Ron’s eyes dropped quickly to his wrist, but clearly he didn’t care much, since his gaze returned to Hermione soon after.

“Seriously, I just don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “You are a muggleborn. Shit like this will get you killed if you don’t watch out.”

The look on Hermione’s face was nearing thunderous now. “Will it now? Well, I thank you for your concern which is most likely given just to spite Harry, but I am perfectly able to decide whom to befriend for myself, thanks.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably and cast a look around the quickly emptying hallway where they had stopped. “Um, guys, as nice as all this is, do you think we can finish some other time, because I’m kind of hungry and missing the breakfast would be awful?”

Hermione shot him a glare. “Harry, shut up! I don’t know why you tolerate this, but you shouldn’t and if you won’t do something about it, then I will!”

Harry raised his hands in a sign of surrender and said, “Fine, fine. Just do something about it before breakfast is over.”

This seemed to satisfy Hermione since she turned her angry attention back onto Ron and took a few threatening steps closer. “Now, you listen to me, Ronald Weasley. We are all in the same house, but even without the whole house unity ideal, bickering like this is ridiculous. From now on you leave Harry alone or you will have to deal with _me_ , and trust me, you don’t want that to happen because I happen to know some very nasty curses. By the time I’m done, your own mother won’t recognise you, I swear to that.”

She stopped to heave a deep calming breath. “Is that clear?” she asked then, her hands on her hips and a furious look on her face.

Ron blinked at her a few times before he replied with a hesitant, “Uh, sure?”

“Good!” Hermione spit out, turned on her heels, and began to determinedly march towards the Gryffindor Tower. She stopped on her tracks just long enough to toss a demanding, “Are you coming or not, Harry?” before she carried on her way without waiting for a response.

Harry cast a quick look at Ron who was slowly shaking his head in wonder, “She’s mental, isn’t she?”

Harry shrugged. “A bit, perhaps, yes.”

Ron glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. He was still frowning, but the suspiciousness from before seemed to be gone.

“So. . . Friends?” Harry tried with a hopeful look.

Ron snorted and responded with, “Oh, piss off,” but this time there was no malice in his voice.

Harry shrugged again and followed after him to the Gryffindor common room. He made a careful mental note not to ever get on Hermione Granger’s bad side.

…o0o…

It took a couple of weeks for the mystery of the Dark Mark to pass unresolved and be mostly forgotten about, and after that it was finally safe again to sneak around Hogwarts alone and not get automatically accused of malicious ulterior motives. Harry took advantage of the momentary calm by digging ferociously through the library on a search for any hints about either the Chamber of Secrets or a student named Tom Riddle. After two weeks of determined research, he had absolutely nothing on the Chamber of Secrets and one measly tidbit of information on Tom Riddle.

Therefore, he decided to crack open the Diary again for the first time since that day on the Hogwarts Express.

_You were chosen as a Prefect in 1943_ , Harry wrote as an opening line, because he couldn’t really figure how to properly greet a book.

It took a moment before Tom wrote back. _Yes, I was. I was also the Head Boy in my time. Do you mind if I ask what brought this on?_

Harry chewed on the tip of his quill and smiled a bit at the fact that he wasn’t even surprised that Tom had made Head Boy, too. He seemed like that kind of a person who wanted to collect titles like Chocolate Frog cards just to show off.

_No reason, really. I tried to search for some information about you but couldn’t find much, just that Prefect thing,_ Harry wrote back.

_So, did you come to me for more information or for hints as to where to start looking?_ Tom wrote back and Harry could practically hear the smugness in the words.

_You’re insufferable, you know that. But whichever you prefer, information or hints would be much appreciated_ , Harry scribbled with a small smile tugging at his lips.

_Have you ever been to the Trophy Room, Harry?_ Tom Riddle asked unexpectedly and Harry’s little smile faded into a small frown.

_I can’t say that I have. Why?_

_It’s a surprisingly enlightening place, full of Hogwarts’ history no one remembers about anymore,_ Tom wrote.

Harry stared at the words for a moment before he added to the page _, This is your hint, isn’t it?_

_Such a clever little lion you are, Harry,_ the Diary mocked and Harry felt almost half-tempted to slam it closed again and to stop even trying. But it was an even bigger part of him that found it kind of irritatingly charming how utterly condescending Tom Riddle could sound even on the pages of the Diary.

_Well, you aren’t half as clever as you think you are,_ Harry responded and let himself be dragged into a half-arsed bickering contest about which one of them was the smartest.

…o0o…

It was the week before the final exams when Draco Malfoy finally deigned to speak to Harry again.

It happened quite unexpectedly when Harry was sitting in the library pouring over his Potions notes in a mild state of panic, when Draco suddenly appeared and sat at the opposite side of the table. Harry glanced up just long enough to check who it was before he dropped his eyes back onto the messy notes and pretended to continue reading. Draco made a show of digging a few books from his bag but didn’t even bother opening them. He merely sat there for a while, staring at the top of Harry’s bowed head intensely. Harry picked up a quill and scribbled a few pointless words onto his already confusing notes. He could almost feel how Draco grew more irritated by the minute as Harry kept ignoring him.

It took about five minutes until the Malfoy heir couldn’t take it any longer and broke the silence between them with an unexpected declaration:

“Zabini knows something.”

Harry glanced up and quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh? Are we talking to each other again?” he asked with feigned confusion. It was a bit childish perhaps, but Harry felt that his anger was justified.

Draco’s eyes narrowed and he repeated, “Blaise Zabini knows something.”

“Well, good for him,” Harry commented and dropped his eyes back onto the notes, even though he was cursing Zabini in his mind. Hadn’t they agreed to keep everything a secret? If the stupid Slytherin had gone around telling everyone that Harry spent his holidays hanging out with the Dark Lord, then there would be no end to the accusation of Harry’s status as a Death Eater.

“He knows something about you that I don’t,” Draco continued and he sounded honestly annoyed. “Why is that? I didn’t even know that you were friends with him.”

“I’m not friends with him,” Harry answered honestly and shot a sharp warning look at Draco. “And for your own sake, just drop it.”

“See! That’s exactly what Blaise said too,” Draco exclaimed and threw his arms up in the air. “He told me to drop it and stay away from you if I appreciate my continuous good health.”

Oh, yes, Harry had some carefully chosen words for Zabini when he next saw him.

“A very strange thing to say, isn’t it?” Draco persisted like the stubborn git he clearly was. “Obviously he knows something important about you and you have to tell me, too, not only because I’ve known you longer, but also because I’m your best and probably only friend and you owe me that much.”

Harry raised his disbelieving gaze onto Draco again. “You haven’t spoken to me in _months_. You are hardly my ‘best friend’ and I don’t have to tell you anything if I don’t want to.”

“There is a valid reason why I avoided you and you know it!” Draco argued.

“Oh yes, that is exactly what friends do, isn’t it? Abandon each other when times are a bit tough,” Harry nodded with feigned sympathy, “Of course, I understand and you’re completely forgiven now.”

Draco nodded satisfied, “Exactly. I trusted that you’d see my side in all of this, glad to know that you can be sensible if you want to be.”

“I was being sarcastic, you cretin!” Harry bit out and gave up all pretence of studying. He pointed an angry finger at Draco, “Zabini knows because he found out by accident and he was _not supposed to tell anyone_. You will never find out if I can help it, and I will not change my mind about this so whining and pestering will not work.”

Draco opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue further, but Harry hurried to interrupt, “And that’s _final_! Now be a good friend for once and explain to me what the hell this stupid chart is trying to say or I will fail my Potions exam.”

For a brief moment Draco seemed to waver, but finally shrugged a bit. “Fine. But don’t think this is over,” he told, before he snatched the piece of parchment from Harry’s hands and looked down on the chart Harry had complained about.

A strange expression of mixed amusement and disbelief wiped away the remaining frustration from Draco’s face and when he looked back up to Harry he seemed to be on the brink of laughing.

“You were holding it upside down,” Draco told, flipped the parchment, and handed it back to Harry.

Harry stared at the chart and before his eyes it suddenly started to make so much more sense than before.

“Oh,” he commented and couldn’t help the embarrassed blush that climbed onto his face. “I see.”

“Glad to know that some things never change,” Draco said, amusement obvious in his voice as he flipped his book open.

“Shut up,” Harry crumbled. It was a startling realisation that on some strange level he had actually missed these confrontational, mutually-insulting conversations he and Draco seemed to always fall into.

…o0o…

It was almost frightening how fast time at Hogwarts passed. Before Harry realised, the exams were over (and the results weren’t nearly as disastrous as Harry expected) and the End-of-Term feast was upon them. It was as lavish as all of the other feasts held at Hogwarts and Harry took particular care to pile sweets and dessert onto his plate since he knew there wouldn’t be much of those at the Manor.

While his popularity amongst his housemates had not seen a particularly remarkable increase during the spring, Harry carefully took part in some of the conversations going on around him and everyone was in good enough moods not to mind. He felt almost like he belonged there when the Headmaster declared that the House Cup would, once again, go to Slytherin and Harry complained and groaned with his house mates about the injustice of it all. Across the Great Hall he caught Draco’s gaze and could only roll his eyes at the smug look the Slytherin shot him.

“I’m going to miss this,” Hermione confessed halfway through the meal. “Of course I’m happy to see my parents again and all, but all this. . . “ she gestured around the Great Hall, “I will really miss this. And magic in general. I can’t believe I have to go months without a single bit of magic.”

Harry nodded his agreement. “Yes, the whole don’t-use-magic rule is a bit weird. How can we practice?”

“Exactly,” Hermione groaned. “I have to go to Diagon Alley as soon as I can and buy books so that I don’t fall behind. I really just want to pack half of the library with me into my trunk before we leave.”

Harry was feeling gracious enough not to point out that it was a summer _holiday_ and there was nothing Hermione could fall behind on. Instead he just offered a cheerful smile and confessed, “I spent so much time in the library before the exams that I don’t want to see a single book before next September.”

“Do you have any plans for the summer?” Hermione asked and picked an orange for dessert.

“Not really. I will have to go to Diagon Alley, too, at some point, but other than that I haven’t got a clue what to do,” Harry told. It gave him pause now that he thought about: what had he done during all the slow days at the Manor? Surely there had to be something to occupy his time other than Voldemort and Nagini. At any rate, what he did during the summer would probably be mostly dictated by the Dark Lord and Harry would have little to say on the matter.

Hermione seemed to perk up, oblivious to Harry’s train of thoughts. “We could meet up at Diagon Alley sometime!”

Harry blinked in surprise, before stammered, “Oh, um, sure.”

No one had ever invited him anywhere, so it was quite nice to know that Hermione would actually want to meet him outside of the school, too.

“And I could write, too. I don’t think I’ll have much to do during the summer, so it would be nice,” Harry suggested carefully. Hermione’s wide beam told him that he worried for nothing. Harry offered a smile of his own in return before he turned back towards his pile of sweet pastries.

Yes, Harry had to admit that leaving Hogwarts would make him a bit sad. Somehow he had grown to like it here, the castle, the people and the oddities, all included. Not that he wasn’t happy to go home again, no, the mere thought of seeing both Voldemort and Nagini again tomorrow and sleeping in his own bed for a change made him quite excited, but still... It would be months before he would see this magical ceiling again, eat these delicious foods or walk through the torch-lit hallways...

...or have the chance to investigate the Trophy Room.

“I can’t believe I forgot,” Harry groaned, let his fork fall from his hand, and slammed his palm against his forehead.

“If you say you forgot to pack, even though I reminded you ten times, Harry Potter, I swear—“ Hermione began next to him, alarmed by Harry’s little display enough to get distracted from her meal again.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Harry assured quickly and he shook his head and tried to stumble up from the bench. “There’s just something I have to... You wouldn’t happen to know where the Trophy Room is?”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, made a bizarre frustrated face, before she climbed up from her seat, too.

“Yes, I happen to know where it is and I will only show you if you in turn tell me what this is about,” she told him firmly. Harry weighed his options for a moment before he realised that his chances at finding the Trophy Room on his own were slim to none.

“Fine, come along then,” he said and they hurried out of the Great Hall together with a few curious looks wandering after them.

The Trophy Room was located on the third floor and against all walls of the room leaned high shelves and showcases filled with hundreds and hundreds of carefully placed trophies, cups, plates and shields. Harry had to stop at the door just to stare at it all, mildly in awe.

“Oh, hell, I didn’t expect _this_ ,” Harry muttered as he cast a look around the room. “This is hopeless.”

Hermione made a low agreeing noise and she crossed her arms over her chest. She was wearing her perfectly cultivated expression of exasperation now, the one that Harry had become rather well acquainted with by now, and when she spoke some of the emotion bled into her tone too, “Probably. But it might help if you told me what you are looking for, so I could help you out.”

Harry glanced at her from the corner of his eye before he said, “I’m trying to find someone called Tom Riddle.”

“Tom Riddle?” Hermione repeated the name and quirked an eyebrow questioningly.

“Yes. He’s someone I know and I want to see if it’s true that his name is on one of these ridiculous trinkets,” Harry explained somewhat truthfully.

Hermione observed him closely for a brief moment before nodding, “Alright. Better get to work then.” She glanced around the room and made a face, “I could be enjoying a nice festive meal right now and here I am, on my last day at Hogwarts this year, helping you rummage through a dusty cupboard. You have odd hobbies, Harry.”

Harry shot her a wide, sheepish smile before turning towards the nearest showcase and starting to read through the names on the trophies. It was slow work, but every now and then he would come across a familiar name and he’d remember what Tom Riddle said about forgotten history. They were the names of old magical families, names of famous Quidditch players and names of people who were now politicians and historically remarkable figures. Some of the trophies were very old, while some were relatively new. But even then, no sign of Tom Riddle anywhere.

About half an hour passed before Hermione’s voice interrupted Harry’s work.

“Harry, do you have relatives who went to Hogwarts?” she asked and looked over her shoulder at him. “I’ve run across maybe four Potters by now and I couldn’t help wondering if you’re related.”

Harry blinked a bit, startled by this unexpected information, before he shrugged. “All of my family has been dead for as long as I remember, so I really don’t know,” he admitted. Then the faint memory of Mr. Ollivander telling Harry how he had made the wands for the last few generations of Potters rose to his mind and Harry felt the need to amend, “But I think the Potters were a magical family, so it might very well be some distant relation.”

Harry was about to get back to work but before he could, Hermione asked, “You know nothing about them?”

“Not really,” Harry replied, shrugging and carrying on reading. He could tell that for some reason his response bothered Hermione—he could feel her gaze boring into his back for a few moments longer—but couldn’t quite figure out why.

Another moment of silent work passed. When Harry was about to give up and leave for bed before the curfew hit, his eyes caught onto a list of names on the wall. He walked curiously closer and realised upon reading the title that it was a list of all Head Boys and Head Girls ever assigned in Hogwarts. Harry quickly followed the dates up to the 1940s until his eyes found the familiar name of Tom Marvolo Riddle carved in, followed by the dates 1944-1945.

“Hermione,” Harry called over his shoulder, “I think I found it.”

He was a bit disappointed, however. After all, Tom had already told him that he had been a Head Boy, so this wasn’t exactly an earthshattering revelation. Well, at least he knew that some of the things Tom Riddle spoke about were true, if nothing else.

“Well, that’s kind of funny,” Hermione called back, “Because I think I found him too. Twice, that is.”

Harry swirled around and quickly crossed the room to where Hermione was leaning over a trophy, squinting at the name carved into the golden plate.

“Admitted to Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Hermione read aloud, “For Special Services to the school of Hogwarts. And it’s dated at 1943.”

Harry frowned. “That’s the year when he was appointed a Prefect. So, he was fifteen then.”

Hermione nodded her agreement, before she straightened a bit to point at a medal on a pedestal a few shelves higher.

“And then this. A Medal for Magical Merit, Tom Marvolo Riddle, 1945,” Hermione read again and Harry leaned in to take a better look. “If I recall correctly, a Medal for Magical Merit is something they sometimes hand out to students who have succeeded astonishingly well in their studies. I think it was mentioned in Hogwarts: A History.”

“Hermione, I really don’t know what I’d do without you,” Harry admitted quite seriously and he carefully filed this new information of Tom Riddle into his memory.

“Well, first of all, you probably wouldn’t have survived past November,” Hermione said with feigned mockery, but by her secretly pleased smile Harry could easily tell that she was rather taken by his appreciation.

Harry responded with his brightest smile, before he grew a bit more serious and said, “Thank you, you know, for everything.” It sounded clumsy and awkward, but Hermione’s small smile indicated that she understood.

…o0o…

Later that night Harry dug out Tom Riddle’s Diary once more, dipped his quill in the ink well and began to write.

_First of all, I can’t tell if you’re more vain or arrogant, since your so called hint led me only to the revelation that you were rewarded for Special Services to the school and later for Magical Merit. You were probably just trying to impress me._

It took a moment, but when Tom replied it was with a simple, _Did it work?_

Harry snorted and replied with, _Perhaps a little._

_I quite thought so,_ Tom wrote back smugly, before he added, _Is there a second of all coming?_

_Secondly, just because a few of the things you’ve told me seem to add up, I still don’t trust you. You are a person in a book, I don’t know if it can get more suspicious than that_ , Harry wrote in an unexpected spout of honesty.

Then he added, _You are a Slytherin trapped in a book and it definitely can’t get any more suspicious than that._

Tom Riddle’s reply was swift and full of amusement, _My little lion, how sweetly naïve you are._

Harry frowned, annoyed, and wrote, _What do you mean?_

Tom’s neat handwriting appeared even faster than usually, _You can be suspicious now all you want and fight me with everything you have, but I think we both know that in the end I am going to win, either way._

Harry stared at the page, frown pulling his brows together as he scribbled down, _And why is that?_

Tom Riddle’s response was swift:

_Because I am irresistible, of course._


	9. Shall We Not Revenge

_:What is he doing?:_ Harry asked Nagini two weeks into his summer holiday and nodded towards Voldemort who was huddled by his desk, pouring over old documents with grim determination.

Harry was comfortably curled in his armchair in the Dark Lord’s study with Nagini wrapped cosily around and on top of him. He had been lazily skimming over a book on basic Apparation theory while keeping a curious eye on Voldemort’s progress through a pile of old parchments.

While Harry had barely seen Voldemort over the Yule holiday as the man was often away running whatever errands he had to, during summer he was rarely gone. Instead, he spent astonishingly long times holed up in his study, reading over thick books and ancient looking scrolls with a mixture of boredom and irritation written over his face.

Nagini lifted a lazy head and took a look at the Dark Lord. _:Who knows_. _He has been even less talkative than usual. He has probably lost what little mind he has left.:_

Red eyes flickered up and cast a deadly glare at the two of them. _:Yet, there is nothing wrong with my hearing. You two may stay only if you shut up:_ Voldemort commented their conversation before he tossed aside another document and picked up a new one.

Harry only shrugged slightly and went back to his book, while Nagini let out an offended hiss and seemed to bristle in a very unsnake-like manner.

_:For weeks he won’t talk and when he does it’s so rude that the world rather misses silence,:_ Nagini hissed indignantly. _:I require attention! I will have you know that anyone else would be grateful to have such a pleasant companion such as myself—“_

_:Nagi_ , _:_ Harry mumbled a warning, because he could see how an annoyed muscle ticked at Voldemort’s jaw.

Nagini flicked her tongue at him in an insult before turning towards Voldemort and revealing her fangs in a hiss, _:I trained you better than this!:_

_:Get out, you useless worm,:_ Voldemort spat out sharply without looking up from his papers.

_:Oh, I will get out_ , _:_ Nagini told and slithered off from Harry’s shoulders. _:And I will not come back. I will go somewhere where I’m appreciated the way I ought to be!:_

The snake left the room, her strong body carrying her across the room alarmingly fast. She only stopped at the door to toss a few insults behind, before she disappeared with a flick of her tail. Harry stared after her with a small frown.

“She will be back,” Harry assured the Dark Lord. “She always comes back. She’s just jealous of all those papers you hold so dear these days.”

Voldemort didn’t respond, only skimmed over more lines and across new words with a frown crunching up his brow. Harry looked down at his book, memorised the page number carefully, and closed it. He rose silently and tiptoed closer to the desk where the scrolls and tomes laid in haphazard piles.

Harry picked up one of the scrolls, and while Voldemort shot him a quick sharp look, he didn’t protest.

“These are family trees,” Harry realised after a while and checked a few more scrolls just to make sure. All of them were the same: long lists of names and familial relations.

“How very perceptive of you,” Voldemort replied drily.

Harry ignored the response and cracked open one of the old books only to be faced with more names and titles. He frowned as he flipped through the pages.

“These are all families with a tendency to Light magic,” Harry pointed out and looked up towards the Dark Lord. “What are you trying to find in these?”

“Weak links,” Voldemort replied like it should have been obvious. “Every family has their black sheep.”

“Hmph, I suppose,” Harry mumbled, though he had his doubts. Living with Gryffindors for a year had rather taught him differently. Harry set down the scroll he had been holding and picked up a thick book instead. He cracked it open and blinked in surprise.

“These are the Weasleys,” he remarked and flipped through the pages. “Oh wow, there are even more of them than I thought.”

As it was becoming apparent that Harry wouldn’t be shutting up any time soon, Voldemort gave up with a slight sigh and set down the parchment he had been reading over.

“They are one of those rare families who believe in numbers more than magical heirs,” he told and stretched his undoubtedly aching neck lazily. For a moment he reminded Harry very much of Nagini, but he decided to keep that observation to himself.

Instead, he looked down at the book again and frowned, “What does that even mean?”

“It is generally believed that the first child of the family will be the magically strongest one,” Voldemort explained, sounding almost bored. “There is relatively significant evidence of that over the centuries, as many remarkable witches and wizards have been either the eldest or the only child.”

“Is that why so many families have only one heir?” Harry asked and thought back to his year mates. Now that he really thought about it, he didn’t think he knew many people who had siblings at all.

“Yes. Many older families deem it unwise to produce more offspring if the first one is supposed to be the best one,” Voldemort confirmed. “It seems to have been working for centuries, but unfortunately the wizarding community is dying out due to this.”

“Oh, well, that’s not good at all,” Harry mumbled and flipped to the last filled-in page of the book he was holding. There were still several hundred empty pages in the book, but on that last page he found written the familiar names of his year mates.

“Bill Weasley,” Harry read aloud, “He’s the eldest one. Are you going to try to… convert him or something?”

“I fear the eldest Mr. Weasley is lost to our cause,” Voldemort said indifferently and reached out to pick up another scroll. “He joined the Order straight out of Hogwarts. I doubt his brothers will be any different.”

“The Order?” Harry parroted, but got no explanation. He looked down at the book again and in the silence of his mind he had to agree with Voldemort’s assessment. None of the Weasleys really seemed the type to turn their backs on their family.

Well, most of them anyway.

“Well, there’s always Percy,” Harry said and shrugged a little. Voldemort had already started reading a new scroll, but now stopped to cast a look at Harry, his eye brow quirking questioningly.

“I mean, he’s definitely made of the same stuff as the rest of his family,” Harry hurried to explain, “But he seems pretty ambitious. He might even abandon his family, if he saw an opportunity worth grasping.”

For a moment Voldemort didn’t say anything, only seemed to mull over what he had just heard. Harry didn’t mind the silence. He simply placed the book back onto the table and looked over the scrolls lying there. Few of the names on the top of the scrolls rang familiar, some he had never heard. Then, just when he was about to lose his interest in this seemingly boring business, his eyes caught something written on one of the scrolls. ‘ _Pott_ ’ the title read, but half of it was covered by other papers, so Harry couldn’t be sure if it was what he thought it was. He didn’t dare to reach over to check.

When he raised his eyes back towards the Dark Lord, the red eyes were watching him intently, clearly knowing exactly what was going on in Harry’s head.

“Interesting,” Voldemort said finally. “Leave now. I have work to do.”

Harry cast one last look to the table, but the mysterious, tempting scroll had disappeared somewhere among the other documents.

“Fine. This looks boring anyway,” he shrugged and turned to leave. He took his Apparation book with him and was about to leave the room, but turned at the door to look back.

“Were you the only child?” he asked. Voldemort’s eyes snapped up to him and seemed to burn with something sharp and angry. Harry refused to be afraid.

“I think you were,” he said instead, before he asked, “Was _I_ the only child?”

“Get out,” Voldemort said and there was enough acid in the tone to make Harry slip from the room with his questions unanswered.

Harry had already made it down the hallway and one flight of stairs before he realised what his own question had implied. He stopped there, dead on his tracks, stared at the ugly peeling wallpaper to his side and revelled in the fact that, if Voldemort was the only child then—logically thinking—he also had _parents._ The most powerful Dark Lord of the century had been a _child._ And he must have had parents. Somehow it seemed so outrageously ridiculous a concept that Harry couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed and quickly realised that he couldn’t stop, so he leaned against the wall and kept laughing until his sides ached.

Between the barks of laughter he managed to mutter, “Humans don’t come from eggs,” to the empty stairway, but even if the walls had ears they didn’t find it as amusing as Harry did.

…o0o…

That night Harry dreamt.

_Harry paces back and forth in the familiar study, his gaze landing upon the frustrating stack of scrolls on the desk every now and then. He picks one up, takes a look and stares until names dance before his eyes and the words melt into meaningless letters. With a heavy sigh he lets the scroll in his hands fall back onto the desk and he brings a white, graceful hand up to rub at his tired eyes._

_Such a waste of time._

_One smooth movement of a yew wand brushes the documents fluttering onto the floor in a haphazard chaos. It isn’t working. His method is too aimless, too uncertain, and there are too many variables. He can’t remember the last time he slept and the longer he keeps going the more frustrating it gets._

_“Hogwarts,” he mumbles to himself. “The school is the key.”_

_It always is, that bright connecting hub of the British wizarding world._

_But he doesn’t even know where to begin. Time has washed away so many important details, eaten away so many significant names._

_He turns sharply on his heels, walks a few paces across the room and turns again. He walks back with more determination and tears open few of the drawers of the desk before he finds what he is looking for. It’s the list of Hogwarts students this past year. He has read through it before, several times, but now he wonders. Perhaps he missed something every time._

_“Percy Weasley,” he remembers and quickly searches for the name. He did not think of Percy. Percival. Perseus. How many other people did he not think of? It is difficult to focus already, he needs to sleep. But first there is something he has to do._

_He takes the list and leaves the study, wanders through the comfortably dark and silent halls of the house. The night feels cold against his skin, comforting._

_He walks past the doors and through the corridors, before he stops at his own door. The door opens almost silently apart from the sad little whine from the hinges. He enters the room and walks soundlessly across it. And then Harry is looking down upon his own face, absentmindedly noting the strangely restless look he is wearing in his sleep. He leaves the list of names on the nightstand and leaves as silently as he came._

_Wake up, Harry thinks. WAKE UP NOW!_

When he blinked his eyes open in the darkness of his own bedroom, he could still hear the echo of the door snapping quietly shut. He took one look upon the nightstand where the list with students’ names lay and he knew that it hadn’t been a dream at all.

…o0o…

Once would have been understandable, a freak accident in a magical world. One vision was excusable. Twice. . . Well, usually when something happened twice, it stopped being an accident and turned into a pattern instead. A habit. A _problem._

Harry did not sleep well that night, because the nagging realisation that something is clearly wrong kept him awake until the small hours of the morning. It would seem that for some unexplainable reason he could sometimes see through the Dark Lord’s eyes. Borrowing anyone’s eyes in such a manner would have been alarming, but the fact that they were Voldemort’s was even more so. Harry had never heard of anything similar; had never encountered Seeing so subjectively personal and focused on only one person. It was worrisome and Harry was sure that Voldemort had no clue that it was happening. Moreover, Harry couldn’t even begin to guess what the man would do if he ever found out.

Many strange and unnatural things were common occurrences in the life full of magic, but some things went even beyond that. This was one of them. He would wait and see for now. If he got lucky, it would never happen again and Harry could happily forget about it and Voldemort would never need to know.

Still, for the rest of the silent hours of the night Harry wasn’t brave enough to close his eyes. Eventually, he gave up on sleep and quietly got up.

He went to the sitting room where they usually had breakfast and called a house elf for toast and tea and a few other things, before settling down to eat. When the morning owl brought the _Daily Prophet_ he wasted a few dozen minutes skimming over articles here and there. After a while Voldemort’s loud absence began to make him slightly uncomfortable. Surely he hadn’t left the Manor last night?

It took a while longer, but eventually Voldemort appeared at the sitting room door, looking no less tired than the night before. Harry shot him a greeting smile, which Voldemort returned in the form of a glare, obviously thinking that no one had the right to be cheerful at this time of the day.

“Did you sleep well?” Harry asked, recalling the feeling of absolute exhaustion he had noted in the vision. Voldemort raised a high-arching eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the unexpected question, but didn’t answer. That was enough of a reply for Harry to guess that Voldemort hadn’t slept a single blink all night.

“I noticed the list this morning,” Harry mentioned casually and reached for a piece of toast. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“The same thing you did with the Weasleys,” Voldemort replied shortly.

“I don’t really know many people at Hogwarts, to be honest,” Harry admitted, “You told me not to waste time socialising.”

“That I did. But I also know that you watch, because that’s what you do. You will know enough,” Voldemort said as if that was the last of it and all Harry could do was accept it silently.

“Well, it’s not like I have much else to do around here,” Harry shrugged, before he remembered something else. “If I wanted to visit Diagon Alley someday, could I? Just to buy a few books and such.”

Voldemort shot him a searching look, before he replied even more curtly, “We shall see.”

Harry knew well enough not to persist, so he merely helpfully pushed the tea pot closer to the Dark Lord.

He was just spreading butter onto his second piece of toast when Voldemort unexpectedly stood up. Harry’s eyes snapped towards him, before he scanned a circle around the room, trying to figure out what had startled the man. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so Harry’s gaze turned back towards the Dark Lord. There was a peculiar frozen look of concentration on the man’s face, but before Harry’s very eyes the expression began to bleed into something else, something distressingly close to alarm. It was an expression Harry had never before seen on Voldemort’s face and it made a wave of worry crash through his mind.

“What is it?” Harry asked, but before he had even finished the question the half-empty teacup in Voldemort’s hands slipped through his fingers. It hit the floor, shattering into thousands of small porcelain pieces. A pair of crimson eyes snapped to meet Harry’s wide and panicked gaze for a second before the Dark Lord followed the teacup, collapsing almost in slow motion before Harry’s eyes.

Harry’s heart jumped and lodged itself into his throat uncomfortably, and even before he had properly realised what was happening, he was on his knees on the floor next to Voldemort.

Right in front of Harry’s eyes the only person that mattered to him was gasping for quick painful sounding breaths and blood was starting to seep through his closed eyelids. The tendons on his neck strained and a grimace twisted his face into a mask of pain. Life was leaving the Dark Lord faster than Harry could follow, and panic and pure terror were making it impossible for Harry to stop and _think_.

It was poison, it had to be.

“Please, please, just _don’t_... “ he kept repeating the mantra again and again, but Voldemort didn’t seem to hear anymore. When Harry experimentally pressed his fingers onto the pulse point on the man’s neck, it first felt too fast and fluttery, until it began to decline and slow down dramatically. It took mere seconds before Harry could not feel it anymore. A dry, painful sob of panic tore its way out of Harry’s chest as he pulled his fingers back and stared down at the pale familiar face.

Of all the possible things that could kill the Dark Lord it would be poison that finally. . .

_Poison_.

Everything in Harry’s head grinded to a sudden stop as a sudden flash of clarity cut through his hazy mind. He shoved his hand into his pocket, rummaged round the items in there until his fingers met the smooth, stony surface of the bezoar he always kept with him. He pulled it out quickly, grasped at Voldemort’s jaw and forced the bezoar past his lips. Then he pressed the man’s jaw closed again and prayed to magic itself that it would work.

For five horrifyingly long seconds nothing happened. Then the slightest flutter of breath raised Voldemort’s chest and relief swept through Harry so strongly that it brought suspicious dampness to his eyes. The pulse was still faint and wavering and every breath was a raspy struggle, but the Dark Lord _lived_ and that was enough for now. Harry stumbled to his feet, wiped a few stray tears from his face and drew a deep breath.

Now was really not the time for hysterics. There were a few glaringly obvious facts that meant that they weren’t safe yet. Firstly, someone had broken into the Manor and managed to administer the potion without anyone—even the Dark Lord—noticing, which meant that this whoever-it-was was both skilled and determined. Secondly, this someone had apparently known Voldemort’s habits so well that they knew to poison the morning tea rather than something else, because that was the one thing Voldemort was loath to go without. Thirdly, if someone had managed all this, there was a slight change that they were still in the Manor to make sure that their assassination attempt didn’t fail. In the weakened state Voldemort was now, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge to finish the job.

It appeared that Voldemort would not be joining the living for quite a while, so it was left up to Harry to clean up this mess. The first thing he did was call all of the house elves in the Manor to the sitting room: if nothing else they could help check the Manor for intruders. But when the elves arrived, popping into the room one by one, only two of the three house elves appeared.

Harry stared at their scared, twitching forms and understanding began to dawn.

“I see,” he muttered. “Do you have any idea where she is?” Harry asked, referring to the last, missing house elf.

The two others fidgeted and stammered for a moment, before both shook their heads in sync. Harry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, deep in thought. The most likely reason why the elf was absent was that it was dead, because containing a house elf in a way that made it defy its master’s direct call was nearly impossible. And if the elf was dead, it meant that Harry’s best lead to sort out what happened was gone.

“Search the house,” he ordered the elves shortly. “See if there is anyone who is not supposed to be here. Then search the house for anything strange, I want to know how they got in and how they got out.”

Two quick bows later the elves disappeared to carry out Harry’s orders. When they were gone, Harry let his eyes fall back onto the unconscious figure of the Dark Lord and the iron hand of fear returned to strangle around his throat. With a helpless sigh he set to work.

“This is rather inconsiderate of you,” Harry grumbled as he tucked the mighty Dark Lord Voldemort in bed mere moments later and pulled the covers up to his ears. “You just sleep and leave this bloody mess for me to handle. How is that fair?”

Harry knew he was probably babbling to keep his nerves in check, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The horror from before had faded into some kind of soul-deep worry that gnawed at his consciousness and the fact that Voldemort didn’t seem to be improving at all didn’t make it any better. Harry checked his pulse again and it was still faint and uneven, but as long as it was _there_ , an ounce of hope still remained. Harry carefully wiped some of the dried blood from Voldemort’s cheekbones.

“Don’t you die on me now, you hear me? Because if you do there will be _words_ and you really don’t want that to happen,” Harry told the Dark Lord’s unresponsive body firmly. “So, you better live if you want to save yourself some trouble. And don’t think even for a second that dying will save you from me, you know how stubborn I can be.”

Harry silently cursed his own inability to do anything more to help. With his limited knowledge on poisons he couldn’t even begin to guess what poison had been used or if there was a better antidote to it than a bezoar. He felt helpless and useless, unable to do anything more than stand there, filling the room with empty words and half-hearted threats.

He just hoped that there would be _someone_ he could contact and ask help from. But the sad fact was that he couldn’t trust anyone now. None of the Death Eaters had his trust even on a good day and with Voldemort as vulnerable as he was now, Harry wasn’t about to spread the word. Someone like Professor Snape would surely know what poison had been used and how to counter it, but Voldemort had told Harry not to trust the man and Harry had every intention to respect that. He might be able to write to Hermione and hope that she’d know something, but even then it would take ages for the reply to arrive via owl. Besides, Hermione’s curious nature meant that she’d surely ask questions that Harry was unwilling to answer.

Then the answer to all of Harry’s problems dawned startlingly clear and obvious. So obvious that for a moment Harry could only marvel at his own stupidity, before he jumped off from Voldemort’s bed and practically run though the Manor to his own room.

The Diary still lied where Harry had hidden it, beneath all the junk he stored in his trunk. Harry quickly flipped it open, snatched a quill and wrote:

_Tom, I need your help. Someone I care about has been poisoned and I need you to tell me how to counter the poison. I already used a bezoar, but it only stopped it from doing further damage and didn’t properly counter it._

As the words faded, Harry waited for the response with his heart lodged in his throat.

_Poisoned? My, my, what an interesting life you lead, Harry,_ was Tom’s reply and as nothing more followed, Harry began to panic.

_You’re the only one who can help me! Please!_ Harry wrote, his hurry making his handwriting even messier than normal.

But Tom Riddle was nothing if not a Slytherin, even in the face of a crisis. He took his sweet time replying and when he did, it was with a question, _What do I get out of this deal?_

Harry stared at the question unblinkingly until it faded from the page. His desperate fear began to transform into something foreign, into anger unlike Harry had ever experienced before. It bitterly burned the back of his throat and made his ears ring. And the fury wrote:

_If he dies you will get nothing out of this deal! If he breathes his last breath and you could have helped me to prevent it, but didn’t, I swear to Morrigan that I will take your little book and burn it into ash even if that’s the last thing I ever do_. _If you let him die now, I will personally ensure that Tom Riddle goes with him._

The paragraph stayed on the page for a heartbeat before fading. Then the page remained empty for much longer than usual and fear crashed back in through the anger. Tom would refuse, Harry realised, simply because he had no reason not to. There was nothing Harry could use against him and nothing he could bribe him with.

Harry slowly stood up from the floor where he had been crouching before his open trunk and began to walk towards the fireplace. He had not been lying. He owed no loyalty to Tom Riddle and if it came to it, Harry would not regret going through with his threat. Perhaps it was some kind of stupid, childish resentment that made him so certain that the destruction of Tom Riddle would make him feel better; made him believe that if the Diary burned, it would diffuse some of the terrified ache that had settled in Harry’s chest.

But before Harry made it across the room, new words began to appear,

_I suppose that proves how much this means to you, doesn’t it? Never reveal your entire hand this early in the game, my little lion._

Harry’s fingers curled tighter around the diary, knuckles turning white and muscles convulsing, as he struggled against the urge to tear out the pages one by one. How could Tom remain so calm, so cold and calculative, when the entire world was falling apart and Harry quickly with it?

_But I will do it. I will help you_ , Tom added then and the relief that hit Harry was strong enough to make his knees give out underneath him. But before he could even think about expressing his gratitude, Tom carried on writing: _However, you will owe me for this._

Harry couldn’t find the strength to argue, _Thank you. I have to figure out how to close the wards around the house. I can’t allow anyone in here while he’s weakened like this._

_After this is over I have a few questions for you, Harry_ , Tom Riddle wrote back and Harry didn’t doubt him. And perhaps it was true; perhaps Harry did owe Tom some answers if he would truly help to secure the Manor and to save the Dark Lord.

_I assume this poisoned mystery person is in charge of the wards, then_ , Tom guessed before Harry had a chance to respond to his previous message. _You will need his wand in order to alter the wards._

Harry quickly snatched the diary and his quill, and turned to run back towards the sitting room where they had enjoyed their disastrous breakfast. Voldemort’s yew wand rested there on the edge of the table, forgotten and strangely lonely-looking without its master. Harry reached for it, but his hand halted in the air before his fingers could meet the smooth handle of the wand.

It’s just a wand, Harry reminded himself firmly and tried again.

It felt incredibly wrong to reach for it and pick it up, because in Harry’s mind this wand was an inseparable part of the Dark Lord. First of all, taking anything of the Dark Lord’s was generally a bad idea, but the fact that it was the conductor of his magic that Harry now held in his hands made it all that much worse. It was almost like holding Voldemort’s magic itself in his hands and that thought alone was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He flipped the diary open again and wrote, _I have it. What do I do now?_

With instructions from Tom Riddle, Harry carefully cast a spell that made the web of wards visible around him. It took him a couple of tries to get the incantation and the wand movement right, but in the end a web of yellow and green exploded into existence around him. It was fascinating how the wards were woven in and around the house, into the walls and floor and through each hallway. It was an invisible net of magic that seemed to hold the entire house in its embrace. There were holes in the web, passageways that allowed people to pass through them.

Outside the house, the ward web reached to the very edge of their yard of ash. The web seemed thicker here, more strings of yellow and green connecting it to the ground and reaching outwards from the house. However, at the front gates there was a passageway through, where the web grew thinner and only a few yellow strings seemed to prevent a completely free entrance. Following Riddle’s advice, Harry carefully began to rearrange the web, pulling strings of magic over to cover up the gateway. It took a while, but eventually the doorway was completely sealed.

_Are you sure this is enough?_ Harry asked the diary, because somehow it seemed too simple to be all of it.

Tom Riddle’s answer was curt and sure _, Of course I am._

Harry shrugged a little, only halfway convinced, before he took a stroll around the entire yard just to check that there were no alternative passageways hidden anywhere. The web appeared flawless and Harry was satisfied enough to return into the house. Once there, he took care to visit every room in the house and stretch the warding web over every fireplace to prevent anyone from flooing in.

It was perhaps an unnecessary precaution to close them off from the world like this, but Harry wasn’t willing to take any chances. If the would-be-assassin had gotten in before, there was no reason why he wouldn’t try again. Besides, the Death Eaters were granted mostly free entrance to the Manor and Harry didn’t trust a single one of them. It was better to keep everyone out until Voldemort was well enough to take over the situation.

Harry opened the Diary again and let the quill dance across the pages.

_How good were you at potions?_

…o0o…

It took over an hour to brew something akin to the antidote. Harry described the symptoms Voldemort had had as carefully as he could and while Riddle clearly didn’t know exactly what kind of a poison it had been, he seemed to know how to relieve most of the reactions the Dark Lord was having.

It was the most painstakingly careful brewing session Harry had ever had. He checked every line Tom Riddle wrote thrice and read every label on the small bottles in the potions lab twice before adding them into the cauldron. He even stirred with uncharacteristic precision and carefulness, even though the restless worry wanted to make him hurry up. Professor Snape would have been proud, and somewhere during the slow and stressful process of brewing, Harry developed an entirely new respect for the man.

_It looks darkish green. Smells a bit like almonds and rotting meat,_ Harry described the potion to the Diary.

_Sounds suitable. I believe you have managed to follow my instructions satisfactorily_ , Tom responded and seemed oddly satisfied with Harry’s success. _It is a shame wizards never have syringes, because inserting the potion that way usually speeds up its effects._

Harry was not sure what a syringe was, but cast a hopeful look around the lab. _What do they look like? I’m pretty sure I have everything imaginable on hand here._

_I doubt you’ll have these. They are a muggle invention. A sort of a small bottle with a needle to insert the liquid straight into the bloodstream,_ Tom Riddle wrote back and he had barely finished when Harry’s eyes caught a set of something very close to the description on one of the many shelves in the room.

_Found them!_ Harry scribbled quickly, before he made a run for the syringe stack and picked one up.

_You did?_ The surprise was evident in the short response, but even more so after Tom added, _We will need to have a long heart-to-heart sometime soon, my little Lion._

Harry ignored the Diary’s words and just asked quickly, _How do I use these?_

He grabbed the potion and the syringe and stuffed the Diary under his arm, before he sprinted through the Manor again to the Dark Lord’s room. Voldemort hadn’t moved a bit, but still lay there unaware of the world around him with a slight sheen of sweat glimmering on his brow. It made Harry feel incredibly uncomfortable how _dead_ he looked and for some reason the conversation he had overheard last Halloween rose to his mind.

“Immortal, remember,” he assured himself in a low whisper. “He will be just fine.”

Following Riddle’s instructions, he filled the syringe with the green potion and carefully inserted the needle into Voldemort’s arm. It was surprisingly easy, considering how bright the blue veins were just underneath the abnormally pale skin. Harry applied the potion and silently begged to every great witch and wizard in history that he hadn’t just done a serious mistake. Voldemort didn’t so much as twitch.

After Harry was done, he reached for the Diary again.

_I’ll trust you for now, Tom, but Merlin help you if you’ve lied to me,_ Harry wrote to the Diary when he was done.

Tom’s response was even odder than usual, if possible: _Such admirable loyalty, but I doubt your threats will do you any good. You have quite the hidden temper, don’t you, Harry?_

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he merely closed the book and let his eyes land on Voldemort’s ashen face. He had done all he could, now all there was left was to wait.

...o0o…

It took two days for Voldemort to wake up.

During those days Harry hardly left his side, as he sat there by his bed on an uncomfortable chair and stared at that familiar, pale face, waiting for the moment when the crimson eyes would finally blink open. On some level he was still full of fear and worry, certain that the Dark Lord would never wake up and years would pass and Harry would slowly waste away right here, waiting. Because he would wait, no matter how long it took, that much was clear in Harry’s mind.

However, one morning he woke up still sitting on that chair and his face squashed against the mattress and with an uncomfortable crick in his neck. When he hovered somewhere between sleep and alertness, he slowly grew aware of the slightly cool fingers that seemed to be absentmindedly petting his hair. Harry didn’t dare to move.

“I am aware that you’ve awakened,” Voldemort’s dryly amused voice told him. He sounded a bit raspy and obviously tired. “If you wish to feign sleep it would notably help if you still remembered to breathe.”

Harry drew a quick breath in, before let it out slowly.

Voldemort huffed a dry, “Better.”

Harry moved carefully and lifted his head just enough to peer up and check that he wasn’t just hallucinating. He wasn’t. Voldemort was looking down at him with an unreadable look on his ashen face. There were dark rings around his eyes and he looked exhausted, but Harry barely noticed because of the purely relieved gladness that overtook him.

“Welcome back,” he greeted and couldn’t help the delighted smile that stretched across his face.

“How long was I gone?” Voldemort asked and made an obvious move that indicated that he was going to try and get up. Harry quickly stood up and firmly pushed him back onto the pillows.

“Two days. And you will rest for a few more,” he told the Dark Lord, “I don’t know what poison it was, but it certainly did a number on you.”

Voldemort made a face of outraged annoyance, so familiar that Harry couldn’t help grinning again. When the Dark Lord spoke his voice gained new strength just from his irritation, “I will not stay in bed and let you nanny me, you can trust me on that.”

Harry tried not to laugh at the mental image, but relief and two days of worrying and poor sleep made him too giddy to keep it in. He broke down in laughter and carried on laughing until he had to wipe merry tears from his face and then laughed some more. It was like a dam had broken somewhere within him and in this flood of mirth was washing away all the fear and worry he had struggled with during the past few days.

“Fine, no nannying, I promise,” he managed to promise through his laughter.

Voldemort was obviously neither convinced nor impressed, because while Harry was still trying to get himself back under control, the Dark Lord was slowly and carefully shuffling out of his bed, unsteady and weak as a unicorn foal, but clearly quite determined. Harry subtly offered his help and if the man accepted it with uncharacteristic appreciation, neither of them commented on it.

“A couple of potions and I will be fine,” Voldemort muttered, but it seemed that he was trying to assure himself more than Harry. Harry wisely kept his doubts to himself and merely aided the man silently through the Manor into the potions lab. It didn’t take miraculous skills of observation to understand that even the short journey squeezed all the strength and energy out of the Dark Lord. By the time they got to the lab, Voldemort looked even closer to death than he had when he had been unconscious. He collapsed ungracefully onto the only chair in the room and looked like he would probably keel over right then and there if Harry didn’t have a firm hold on his shoulder.

“The poison might have melted some of my organs,” Voldemort mumbled then, sounding out of breath and pained. Harry blinked slowly at the information, wondering why the Dark Lord didn’t find that nearly as alarming as Harry did. Before Harry could voice his worry, Voldemort carried on speaking, “Third shelf, a purple flask, a green square bottle on the bottom one and a black vial on the side table. Get them.”

Harry spurred into action without a second thought, quickly fetched the three potions and cradled them in his hands, careful not to drop any. He was quite convinced that it would take several dozen little bottles more before Voldemort was back to his old self and in his mind Harry made a silent vow to help in any way that he could until then.

“No, the green one first,” Voldemort instructed when Harry offered the potions to him. Then he downed the contents of the small bottles one by one and after that just sat there breathing shallowly and waiting as the potions slowly worked their magic. Harry hovered there by Voldemort’s shoulder just in case he needed anything else.

Several moments passed slowly in silence, before the Dark Lord spoke again. This time his voice was more firm and he didn’t sound quite so breathless and uncomfortable.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, the crimson eyes cracking open just enough to peer at Harry.

“D-did what?” Harry fumbled over words in his confusion, wondering what he had done wrong now. Surely the man didn’t think that it was _Harry_ who had poisoned him? Harry was prepared to vehemently argue for his innocence on this. He felt offended, even hurt, that the man would even for a second think that Harry would be capable of this.

“Why did you save my life?” Voldemort asked instead of accused, and now the look he cast was serious and slightly wondering. It was almost like he was trying to puzzle Harry out but wasn’t quite succeeding as well as he had hoped.

Harry let out a startled back of laughter at the question, before he realised that Voldemort was serious and expecting an answer. Then Harry had to take another moment just to sort through his surprise, because surely the man had to know that he meant the world to Harry.

Something like frustration seemed to take hold of Harry’s tongue as he spit out sharply, “Well, of course I wasn’t just going to let you die! What the fuck would I even do without you?”

Voldemort made a disgruntled face at his crude language, but otherwise he didn’t react. It seemed that after that he withdrew somewhere into his own mind and mulled over thoughts that were far beyond Harry’s understanding. Then he slowly got up, as if testing out the reaction the potions had had on his body, before he turned to cast an enquiring and slightly displeased look at Harry.

“My wand,” he ordered, extending a hand towards him.

Harry obeyed quickly, dug into his pocket and passed the yew wand to the Dark Lord. The second Voldemort’s fingers met the wood, a bizarre expression of delighted relief flashed across his face before he could school it back to a neutral one.

“Now, would you explain why you have made such a mess of my wards?” Voldemort said then.

That information Harry volunteered readily, “I just closed them so that no one could get in here while you were...” _comatose and dying, “_...gone. You once told me to be paranoid of everyone, so I was.”

Voldemort sighed slightly. “It will take days to fix this mess,” he grumbled, hesitated and added, “But your distrust was not misplaced.”

Harry tried not to soak up the approval too obviously, but offered a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement. It wasn’t even a proper compliment, only a statement that Harry hadn’t been wrong, and yet it warmed comfortably somewhere in Harry’s chest and made him feel lighter and happier.

“What happens now?” Harry asked, curiously.

“I have a good guess as to who was behind the brewing of the poison, as I have seen this particular brand of destruction before.   Because of that I should be able to find out who was the one to order and administer it,” Voldemort said and there was an undertone in the words that promised that as soon as he did just that, there would be blood and pain and a great deal of misery before this entire incidence would be finally over. Harry couldn’t say that he didn’t understand because he definitely did and, against his better judgement, even agreed.

Therefore, he decided to mention, “Actually, I know who’s most likely behind that administering part.”

Voldemort’s eyes snapped at him sharply and Harry hurried on quickly, “As soon as I had given you the bezoar and you weren’t in danger anymore, I ordered the house elves to search the house. Only two of them showed up, one is still missing.”

A chill seemed to pass through the room and Harry could see Voldemort’s hand tightening around the handle of his wand. When the Dark Lord called for the remaining house elves with chilled wrath lurking in his eyes, Harry already knew what would happen. He carefully kept his expression in check, but a strange tidal wave of sadness washed through him. He had always liked the house elves, weird, silly creatures that they were.

Two sharp pops later the last house elves stood before them, trembling and jittery.

“It is good to see Master all better,” one of the elves braved to say.

Voldemort paid it no attention, merely cast a chilly look at the elf and asked, “Did either of you see anything?”

“N-no, we sees nothing,” the other elf stammered and wrung its skinny hands in distress.

“Unfortunate,” Voldemort said and then his hand rose so quickly that it was difficult to follow the movement. The spells were nonverbal, but easily recognisable as a smooth sizzle of magic cut the air, before it sliced through two thin necks. Harry flinched and screwed his eyes closed, when two elf heads rolled onto the floor and two small, lifeless bodies fell soon after. Voldemort stared at the dark puddle of quickly spreading elf blood for a moment, almost as if lost in thought, before turning to Harry again. There was something in that look that seemed to tell Harry that he was lucky it wasn’t his head lolling about on the tiling. The Dark Lord was angry and this time around he lacked an outlet since their would-be assassin was long gone.

“What will you do now?” Harry asked, hesitant and curious at the same time.

“I will find whoever was behind this,” Voldemort said with absolute conviction, “And I will exact revenge unlike the world has ever seen before.”

“But it could be anyone. How are you ever going to find him?” Harry wondered.

“Her,” the Dark Lord corrected. “Poison is a woman’s weapon.”


	10. The Unforgivable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just dropping in to say thank you to all you wonderful people! I still can't quite believe the brilliant response to this story. It means a lot that I'm not the only person enjoying this rubbish.

The Dark Lord was a good teacher, Harry had come to realise with time. He was definitely not gentle or patient in his lessons, but there was _effectiveness_ and purpose in every single one of this teachings that Harry had not encountered elsewhere, even after he had begun to attend Hogwarts. Voldemort’s methods were questionable at best, but he was also driven unlike many of the actual professors Harry had met so far. Right from his early years Harry had memories of the Dark Lord, driving lesson after lesson into Harry’s young and supple mind with vehement determination, not relenting and not giving an inch until Harry had learned whatever it was the Dark Lord wanted him to know. It was a personal mission for the man; almost as if he could never rest peacefully and could never be satisfied for as long as Harry remained incomplete and insufficient. And after every lesson that Harry learned, the Dark Lord rewarded him with that chilly, rare nod of approval. He made Harry _want to_ learn.

They had never been gentle lessons, those that Harry could recall from his early childhood. Everything right from walking had been painful, but he had never been allowed to give up and he had never _not_ learned. Thus, there was enough evidence that the pain worked, so who was Harry to question it. There were some memories, however, in which the pain surmounted past tolerable and lessons so tinted with agony that Harry would have been glad to forget about them.

One of those lessons had begun one afternoon when Harry was seven. The Dark Lord had asked, “Do you know what Unforgivables are?” out of the blue and Harry had looked up from the magical moving jigsaw puzzle he had been putting together and frowned.

“They are curses, right?” he had asked hesitantly.

The Dark Lord had nodded curtly, before continuing, “There are three of them.”

Harry had frowned in thought. “The Killing Curse and the Cruciatus Curse,” he had remembered after a while, but he hadn’t been able to recall the third one.

“The third one is the Imperius Curse,” the Dark Lord had given eventually and there had been some dangerous hint in his gaze that had made Harry worry. “It is a curse that allows the caster complete control over the subject. Your mind will yield to the spell and it will compel you to obey everything the caster wants you to do,” the Dark Lord had explained. He had stood up then and had urged Harry to follow.

The Dark Lord had carried on speaking as they wandered through the Manor. Harry had hobbled after him, but even then he had on some level known that nothing good could follow such topics.

“For you, child, this is the most dangerous one,” the Dark Lord had told, “Because you are weak and impressionable. I cannot leave such an opening in the defences.”

“How do I counter it then?” Harry had asked, partly curious and partly because he had known it was expected of him.

“You cannot,” the Dark Lord had said as he had opened the door that lead to the top floor balcony, “It is not a curse you can counter with another spell. You can only fight it. You have to be stronger than the spell, more determined, and have a more powerful intent than the curse.”

“Oh,” Harry had commented wisely, squinting against the harsh spring sunshine as they had stepped outside. The Dark Lord had placed a hand on his shoulder and had guided him to the balcony railing.

“I need you to be stronger than this curse. If you are ever cursed with the Imperius I have to be absolutely certain that you can fight it, because otherwise it could be used against me, through you,” the Dark Lord had told and finally Harry had understood some of the urgency behind this. “This will be uncomfortable and quite painful, but you must realise that it is very much necessary. You _must_ fight this curse, do not let it overcome you. Do you understand?”

Harry had nodded hesitantly, already worried that maybe he couldn’t. “I understand,” he had promised quietly and had mentally braced himself for whatever was to come.

“ _Imperio,_ ” the Dark Lord had cast with the same ease he cast all of his spells, and _nothing_ could have prepared Harry for what was to come.

He had felt _so light_. It was like he had been floating above the ground, wrapped in a comfortable blanket of happiness and utter comfort. The apprehension and slight worry he had been feeling before was suddenly wiped away and he felt relaxed, so good, and calm.

_Climb on the railing_.

What an odd idea it had been, when it had crossed Harry’s mind, but at the same time such a good one. Why wouldn’t he climb on the railing? Harry did it, not entirely sure why, but he knew that it was the right thing to do.

_Jump_.

It had been almost like a gentle voice in his head, pushing suggestions into his mind. But then Harry had hesitated, for the briefest moment. Why? Why would he _jump_? He had glanced down, seeing the ground beneath him, so unwelcoming and unyielding.

_Jump._

Harry had jumped.

It had been the pain of both his legs breaking that threw the curse off him. He had crumpled on the ground beneath the balcony with an agonized wail that turned quickly into pained sobs.

The Dark Lord had Apparated down next to him, unmoved and unimpressed.

“Wha—“ Harry had tried to gasp through his pained tears. _Why_ had he jumped?

“You did not fight it,” the Dark Lord had pointed out, cold and cruel. “You did not even try.”

“How could I. . .” Harry had tried, “How _can I_ fight that? It was so. . . impossible. . . I can’t. . .”

The Dark Lord had lifted an unimpressed brow and levelled his wand at Harry again.

“No, no, give me a—“ Harry had tried begging for a moment to gather himself, but he had been quickly interrupted.

“ _Imperio_.”

The curse had hit him all the same. The pain he had been feeling had faded into a dull ache. The distress and fear had dissipated into deceptive calm and Harry had felt his convulsing muscles slowly relax.

No, no, no, he had thought feverishly, through the haze that settled in his mind.

_Get up and walk._

He couldn’t! He was already too broken to do either of those! Harry had tried to say as much, had tried to tell the Dark Lord that he _couldn’t_ , not right now.

_Get up. And walk._

Slowly, so very slowly, Harry had gotten up until he had stood unsteadily on his broken legs. The pain had now been radiating through his entire being, but the curse had stayed strong. One agonizing step at a time, Harry had walked. He had walked through the halls and up the stairs on his broken legs, gasping for air and ranting in his mind an endless stream of “no, please, no”.

Then he had been on the balcony again and the curse had soothed him gently and sweetly.

_Climb on the railing._

No, no! He would not. He knew what would happen.

_Climb on the railing, child._

It had been so tempting, so reassuring and gentle. Harry had slowly moved his broken body and with some great difficulty he had climbed on the railing. He had not been able to silence the frightened little sobs, but he had climbed.

“No, please,” Harry had whispered aloud, “I’ll try. I’ll fight it.”

_Jump._

No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t anymore.

_Jump_.

He didn’t have to. It was not a good idea. It would hurt.

_Jump. Come now, just jump._

But why wouldn’t he jump? It did sound like a good—no! He wouldn’t! Nothing could make him.

_JUMP._

Harry had jumped.

This time Harry had screamed. He had been able to feel his bones bending and snapping like twigs. This time it had not been just his legs either, but the pain seemed to explode all over. He hadn’t stopped screaming for quite some time.

The Dark Lord had been patiently waiting for him there, just underneath the balcony like he had known that Harry could not resist the curse. He had waited and his bored, unimpressed expression hadn’t so much as twitched when Harry collapsed at his feet in pain yet again.

“I will die,” Harry had told the man in short, broken words that tore through his chest.

“Ah, but you see,” the Dark Lord had said, leaning closer and offering a narrow, cruel smile. “I will not let you die. We will do this as long as it takes.”

Harry had shaken his head weakly. “I can’t.”

The Dark Lord had reached out and realigned Harry’s right arm that had broken in several places, before pointing out almost softly, “It looks like you have no choice. _Imperio_.”

It had taken longer that time. The pain had been too great for even the curse’s gentle trance to overcome, and Harry’s mind had stayed sharper than the times before that. He had fought; he had tried so very hard. But in the end he had tried to walk and when it had turned out that he physically couldn’t walk any longer, the curse had told him to crawl. Against every refusal that Harry had screamed, against every pained sob and silent ugly word that had slipped his lips, the curse had dragged Harry’s broken body back up to the balcony until he sat on the railing again.

_Jump_ , the Imperius had whispered gently in his mind and Harry had said ‘no’ more times than he could recall later.

But in the end he had also jumped.

When Harry crashed into the ground that time with a sickening crunch, everything went very quiet. He hadn’t screamed, all he had been capable of was a short gasp that had banished the remaining breath from his body. He had collapsed there, broken, unmoving and floating in something soft and hazy. He had thought that the curse had not lifted this time, despite the fall, but realised slowly that that had not been it.

“So, this is what dying is like,” he had thought or said or screamed, perhaps merely remembered. Everything had been very soft, and distant, and kind of white around the edges.

Then magic had reached for him, had taken hold of him and hauled him away from that calm distant place, almost as if dragging him through a layer of ice. Suddenly he had been right back there on the Manor yard, gasping for breath with lungs pierced by his ribs and very much alive.

Tears had stung at his eyes as he stared up at the Dark Lord. “Why can’t you just let me die?” he had asked with broken, messy words that had bled out along with blood from his tongue.

The Dark Lord had looked down at him and he had merely shaken his head wordlessly. Then he had lifted the yew wand once more and Harry had begun to cry.

“ _Imperio._ ”

_Get up and walk_.

Harry had heard it in his mind as clear as the first time, just as gentle and coaxing.

No, I won’t, he had thought with strange clarity.

_Get up and walk_.

No. He would much rather just stay here and die than do either of those things, Harry had realised, and the thought had given him odd peace.

_Get up._

He quite liked it here, in fact, Harry had thought then. It had been a very comfortable spot.

_Get up NOW._

“I’m not going to,” Harry had realised then, almost startled and slightly astonished.

“What did you say?” the Dark Lord had asked.

_Get up. Get up and walk._

“No, I’m not going to anymore,” Harry had repeated and relief, unlike anything he had ever felt, had flooded into him. “I’m not going to get up. And I’m definitely not going to walk or jump.”

_Sing_ , the curse suggested then, tempting and comforting.

No. “I’m rubbish at singing,” Harry had said with a broken laughter that sent a bubble of blood running down from the corner of his mouth.

There had been a moment of absolute stillness before the Dark Lord had sighed a little and had pocketed his wand.

“Good,” he had said, “For a moment there I was quite sure this would kill you.”

Harry hadn’t had the power to glare, but sweet darkness had claimed him then, sending him into unconsciousness.

He had woken up later in his own bed when the Dark Lord had enervated him for long enough to swallow down a few potions for pain and a healthy dose of Skele-Gro. He had been aware that he’d be black and blue tomorrow, probably for weeks to come, and he hadn’t really known when he’d be able to walk again but he was oddly at peace with that.

“Thank you,” he had mumbled softly when the Dark Lord had taken the emptied potion bottles from him. Now that Harry had known what the Imperius Curse was and what it did, it had filled Harry with quiet dread that someone else might have been able to wield such power over him and he wouldn’t have even realised what it was. The Dark Lord had cured him of a terrible weakness and Harry hadn’t been able to put into words how much he appreciated that lesson.

The Dark Lord hadn’t asked the reason for Harry’s gratefulness, because he had very well known what Harry had meant.

“Get some sleep,” the man had said and had started towards the door.

Before his exit, however, Harry had called after him, “I forgive you.”

The Dark Lord had turned to look, one eyebrow raised in a curious expression. “What?” he had asked, sounding almost confused.

Harry had offered a feeble smile. “They are Unforgivables. But I forgive you. I forgive you every single time.”

It had been impossible to tell what the Dark Lord had thought of that, because his expression had melted into strange blankness. He had soon exited without a word, but Harry hadn’t minded. He had forgiven the man for bigger things than his untalkative moods and strangeness.

…o0o…

After the poisoning incident, Voldemort stopped sleeping entirely. Nor did Harry ever see him eat or even so much as sit down and rest. The morning routine of tea disappeared, killed by the very poison that had nearly taken the Dark Lord himself. Not even Death Eaters were allowed to pass into the Manor and Voldemort never left himself. He seemed to have entered some kind of a strange frenzy where the only thing that kept him going was pure, white-hot anger.

Harry didn’t say anything, but withdrew into the shadows of the Manor and waited.

He watched from a safe distance how Voldemort furiously scribbled an endless stream of letters. He listened silently while the Dark Lord paced in his study, and yelled obscenities at the fireplace and the poor whoevers he was talking to. Destructive spells were carelessly tossed around until shattered and shredded items littered the floor in every room of the Manor, and Harry was there to clean up the mess every time.

Harry waited ten days in vain for this dark cloud of anger and resentment to dissipate and for the rational, logical Dark Lord to return. Each day Voldemort’s aimless search for clues seemed to become less and less organised and more frantic. Harry was patient, even understanding. He didn’t complain when he realised that the lack of house elves meant that he had to feed himself. He didn’t say anything when Voldemort, in a violent burst of fury, tossed a nonchalant cruciatus curse at him for asking if Voldemort could _please_ fix the hallway windows because the draft had gotten quite chilly during night time. He didn’t comment when Voldemort started to consume unhealthy amounts of Pepper Up and Wakeful potions just to keep going from day to day.

Harry waited until he eventually realised that waiting was not working at all. It was time for interference, even at the cost of Harry’s own immediate well-being.

“You cannot keep doing this forever,” he finally told Voldemort one evening in the study, and crossed his arms across his chest in the best scolding gesture he could muster.

Voldemort didn’t even glance at him or in any way indicate that he had heard. He paced back and forth in the study with a thunderous look on his face and flipped through a book about obscure potion ingredients. He had done it several times during the last few days, and as far as Harry knew it was because the poison was still having some after effects. Every now and then during the past days Harry had seen flashes of pain cross over Voldemort’s face when he moved too quickly and those flashes had appeared more frequently lately.

“Would you just sit _down_ ,” Harry ordered sharply when he realised that Voldemort hadn’t even heard him. He had never before used that tone with the Dark Lord and apparently the shock of it now worked to his benefit. Voldemort stopped in the middle of his frenzied pacing and stared at Harry.

Harry drew a breath. At least he now had the man’s attention, maybe he’d even listen to reason.

“All this pacing is making me dizzy. So, you are going to sit down for a while,” Harry told firmly, “While I go and make you a cup of tea. I will not take my eyes off the cup, I will not get _Imperius_ ’d, and you will not almost die, I promise. You can’t survive on just stubbornness forever.”

It was enough evidence of the state Voldemort was in when he sat down in the nearest chair, _Harry’s_ armchair, and didn’t even shoot a casual curse at Harry first for insolence.

“I cannot rest,” Voldemort said, sounding deceptively calm, “Not before this message is sent loud and clear to the entire world.”

“And you will send it,” Harry agreed. “But as immune to death as you like to think you are, your body at least is still very much human. If you keep going like this, it will give up on you when it counts the most.”

Voldemort seemed to waver for a moment before he nodded curtly. “Tea will suffice.”

‘Suffice’ wasn’t quite what Harry had had in mind, but he agreed with a mild, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Wait here.”

Harry made his way to the kitchens quickly, but it took him a good while to find a teapot and actual tea. After a few disastrous attempts at making sandwiches, he had given up on the whole cooking thing and had lived the few past weeks on crackers and biscuits. Perhaps not the most filling or healthiest of diets, but he had been too busy worrying about the Dark Lord to waste time wondering about where to find food. However, he should probably bring it up sometime, because they were quickly running out of biscuits, too, and Harry had come to realise that he didn’t even know where people _got_ the food to fill their kitchens. So far the house elves had taken care of everything, but since that was no longer an option and because Voldemort seemed less than inclined to do anything about it, it would most likely fall to Harry to solve such minor problems.

Harry waited for the water to boil and loaded cups onto a tray before he ventured through the halls back to the study. To his mild relief he found Voldemort right where he had left him, seated in the armchair with a spectacularly deep frown on his face and deep in thought.

“Here,” Harry mumbled as he offered a steaming tea cup to Voldemort.

The Dark Lord eyed the cup suspiciously, so Harry took a tiny sip from it and raised his eyebrows in a clear ‘ _See, it’s safe’_ gesture. Voldemort accepted the tea almost reluctantly but looked oddly relieved at the same time.

“I’m not going to be around here forever making you tea,” Harry pointed out and hopped to sit on the desk in the study. “So, you’ll probably have to learn to do it yourself now that you got rid of all the house elves.”

Voldemort shot him an annoyed look. “I know perfectly well how to make a cup of tea. Better than you at least. This is an atrocious excuse of a brew.”

Harry had to hide a smile at that because despite the complaint, the permanent crease between Voldemort’s brows seemed to be fading slightly as he worked his way through the cup of the warm beverage.

“Well, it’s the first cup I’ve ever actually made,” Harry commented and offered a small, wry smile.

A few moments passed in peaceful silence before Harry carefully cleared his throat and began to speak.

“You need a battle plan,” Harry pointed out carefully. Voldemort shot him a sharp look but didn’t comment before he had finished the last drops of the tea.

“I always have one,” Voldemort replied.

“Well, this one is not very good, is it?” Harry said, deciding to risk a little pain for the sake of honesty. “You’re too angry to go about this rationally.”

“Angry does not even begin to cover it,” Voldemort growled, his eyes gazing through empty space at some invisible target looming nearby.

Harry replied with a vague hum, wasted a moment pondering over his next words.

“Do you think. . .” Harry begun, cleared his throat and tried again, “Do you think it might have been Mrs. Zabini? I mean she didn’t. . . She was quite. . .” Harry floundered for the words that would not come. It was hard to put Mrs. Zabini in words that did her justice.

“She wouldn’t dare,” Voldemort answered immediately, certainly, “Not after what I did to her first husband.”

Harry very pointedly and loudly didn’t ask about that one, but instead remarked carefully, “Well, you _did_ threaten her only son.”

Voldemort sat there for exactly three heartbeats before he slowly stood up. Harry had seen a great scale of murderous emotions on that face, but nothing before had come even close to this one.

“Wait! I didn’t say get up and go after her now!” Harry hurried to interrupt the approaching doom, sprang to his feet and caught the sleeve of the Dark Lord’s robes before he made it to the door. “What if it _wasn’t_ her? Harassing her now will only ruin whatever deal you made with her.”

“There is only one way to be certain,” Voldemort remarked and the tip of the yew wand pressed against Harry’s forehead. “Let go and you might live to see another day.”

Harry shook his head stubbornly. “There are other ways to find out for sure. You have eyes everywhere, someone would surely have known if she was plotting to murder you. Do not endanger the deal with her just because you are angry now. It might _not_ have been her.”

Voldemort seemed to waver for a moment longer before he sighed ever so slightly and turned to Harry with a raised eyebrow.

“Where is that famous Gryffindor rashness, now? It is not like you at all to think ahead and consider consequences,” Voldemort remarked, clearly recalling the hundreds upon hundreds of occasions in the past when Harry had done exactly that.

Harry decided it unwise to tell the truth in this case. After all, the Dark Lord would not have reacted well if Harry had admitted that the only reason for his hesitation and opposition was that he didn’t believe that Voldemort was mentally or physically in any state to take on Mrs. Zabini. Harry _had_ met the woman and he knew well enough to fear her. Of course, Voldemort could probably crush her like a fly with magic if it got down to that point, but _if_ Mrs. Zabini was their mysterious assassin, by now she would know that she had failed. She would be prepared and waiting for the Dark Lord to search her out. While she might not be as powerful as Voldemort, it was certain that she was at least just as merciless and very smart in her own right. Harry could not let Voldemort go after her before he had at least slept and perhaps had something to eat as well.

But this was not something Harry was going to tell the Dark Lord directly.

Instead, he offered a smile and simply said, “The Sorting Hat told me that I’d make a good Ravenclaw, too.”

Voldemort scoffed very uncharacteristically as if the mere idea of Harry in Ravenclaw was ridiculous, before he ran a weary hand across his face and with a heavy sigh collapsed back onto the armchair.

“I just can’t _focus,_ ” Voldemort spat out and threw a quick, neat blasting curse that shattered the only bookshelf in the room, almost as if to test if his focus was still enough to manage that.

“That’s probably because you haven’t slept in about a month,” Harry pointed out, perhaps unwisely because the next curse was aimed at him. Fifteen seconds of the intense, excruciating pain had him on his knees on the floor. Even after Voldemort lifted the curse _,_ Harry stayed down there for a full minute, gasping for quick pained breathes. It was most bizarre, that curse, one would think it would get easier to bear with time but that just never seemed to happen.

Harry lifted his eyes defiantly at the Dark Lord. “You can curse me all you want and it will not help the situation any.”

“Is that so?” Voldemort mocked. “I’ve noticed quite the opposite; it usually makes me feel remarkably better every time.”

Harry didn’t dignify that with a response but carried on, “You need sleep. Honest to Morpheus, pillows and duvets type of sleep—“

Before he made it to the end Voldemort interrupted. “I cannot sleep. Not now.”

While all of the previous weak arguments against sleep had stemmed from Voldemort’s obsessive need to find and punish the assassin, something else seemed to blossom just beneath this admission. Harry let his eyes roam searchingly across Voldemort’s face and to his astonishment he caught something, something weird and out of place, something very much like fear.

Harry cleared his throat carefully before he spoke, “The wards are still closed. The house elves are dead. Nagini and every other living thing in this house are gone at the moment,” Harry listed slowly, counting with his fingers. Then he looked up at the Dark Lord and offered a thin smile, “And I have made it clear that I very much prefer you alive. I’m sure the world can spare you one night of rest.”

It was quite strange, but slowly and startlingly clearly it had begun to dawn on Harry that, as seemingly untouched by the poisoning incident as Voldemort was, somewhere underneath the carefully maintained façade he was terrified of death.

“Just. . . take a few hours off from all this Dark Lord business,” Harry insisted with a small helpless shrug.

Voldemort shot him a narrow glare and said warningly, “If I recall, you promised that no nannying would occur.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I should charge money for this; it’s almost a full time job by now,” he commented dryly before he stopped to think and added, “Maybe I really _should_ do that. I don’t actually have any money of my own, do I?”

Voldemort made a vague, frustrated sound and twirled the yew wand around his fingers, “You have a trust fund, actually,” he remarked in passing, clearly so deeply in thought that he missed the reaction Harry had to that little tidbit of information.

“A trust fund?” Harry repeated, staring at the Dark Lord with his jaw hanging open. “Why would you set up a trust fund for me?”

Voldemort’s glare was pure acid. “Of course I didn’t, you imbecile.”

Harry blinked slowly. “My _parents_ left me a trust fund?”

For some odd reason this seemed to only irritate Voldemort even more.

“Perhaps they realised that they wouldn’t live long enough to actually pay for your schooling themselves,” Voldemort commented. He seemed to frown disapprovingly at some faded memories that only he could access before he eventually carried on unprompted, “They were absolutely loathsome people. No one was surprised that they wound up dead.”

By now, Harry was quite openly staring at the Dark Lord in shock, but the man didn’t appear to notice or care. This was only the second time during the very long years they had lived under the same roof that Voldemort mentioned Harry’s late family.

Harry decided to try his luck and carefully carried on with the topic, “If they left me a trust fund, does that mean they left me an actual vault, too? They were one of the old families, weren’t they?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed at him slowly, suspicious. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

“The trophy room and some lucky guessing,” Harry shrugged, pretending it wasn’t an important thing at all to him.

Voldemort huffed drily. “The trophy room, of course. It is a surprisingly enlightening place occasionally.”

“So I’ve heard,” Harry replied vaguely, while he tried not to make it obvious that he had heard something very similar before from one Tom Riddle.

“They left you a vault, yes, and a shack they liked to call a house in Godric’s Hollow,” Voldemort told and offered Harry a narrow mockery of a smile. “I burnt the house down and spent the money, so you may as well forget about all that.”

Harry stared for a moment, while he tried to process this surprising, new information before he decided that Voldemort was right. It wasn’t that important, a thing of the past and better left forgotten. The present was a way more pressing matter right now.

“Do you see what’s happening here?” Harry asked hesitantly. “The more tired you get, the more you talk. You’ve never before told me any of these things.”

“The only reason why I am telling you any of this is that you are just always _here_ ,” Voldemort grumbled, sounding absolutely disgusted by the mere fact. “It has become almost like talking to myself, except you keep insisting on offering your much unwanted opinions.”

Harry tried to suppress the grin that tugged at twisting his lips, but failed. “Thank you for proving my point.”

Voldemort shot him a sharp look before he seemed to disappear into his thoughts for a moment. Then he stood up slowly and cast a quick _Tempus_ charm. It was a bit after midnight.

“Very well,” the man sighed, before he carried on with “I expect you to be ready at 9 sharp.”

Harry nodded reflexively before the meaning of the words registered. “Ready for what?” he asked with surprise, and hopped onto his feet from his armchair when Voldemort started towards the door.

“For Diagon Alley,” Voldemort said. “You are right about one thing. My methods so far haven’t been efficient enough, so it is high time to attempt a more. . . personal approach. You might as well buy your books for next year at the same time.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry agreed with a shrug. “Does this mean you’ll sleep?”

Voldemort didn’t deem it necessary to reply, and he was gone before Harry had enough time to wish him good night. Harry spent an extra ten minutes cleaning up the mess that had taken over the study during Voldemort’s restless quest for destruction, before he snuffed out the last flames in the fireplace.

When he cast one last look around the room, a calm satisfaction settled in his chest. It had been an impossible quest to begin with, but now that he had actually gotten through to the Dark Lord and had convinced him to at least sleep, Harry couldn’t deny that he felt irrationally happy with himself. It felt. . . good that after so many years of Voldemort taking care of him, he could repay somehow, even if it was in such small ways.

…o0o…

_Dear Hermione,_

_I know this is a bit sudden, but I will be at Diagon Alley tomorrow morning. I would be more than happy to meet up with you, if you are still interested. Your reply probably won’t catch me in time, but I will be at Flourish and Blotts around 10 tomorrow, so if you have the time I could meet you there._

_Sorry about the short notice._

_Regards,  
Harry_

…o0o…

The next morning, the restless fury that Voldemort had emitted for weeks was gone and it had been replaced by dark determination. Harry offered him a small satisfied nod when he joined him in the entry hall promptly at nine as they had agreed upon. It was obvious that the Dark Lord had gotten at least a wink of sleep, because he seemed more focused and calm than the night before or any night before that. Voldemort didn’t respond in kind, merely grasped Harry’s arm and pulls him towards the fireplace.

“We’re flooing?” Harry asked curiously. It was oddly comforting to know that Voldemort had re-established his footing enough to be comfortable opening the floo network that connected the house to the outside world.

“Borgin and Burkes,” Voldemort said simply. “Pronounce it clearly and don’t disappear before I get there, too.” Then he pushed Harry into the fireplace, among all the ash and threw a handful of floo powder after him, without so much as a warning.

As the flames roared, Harry quickly quipped out the name of the shop and before the words had faded from his lips, he was falling out of another fireplace and landed disgracefully on his face on the wooden floorboards.

“Why does this keep happening?” he grumbled angrily to himself, as he stood up and wiped dust and ash from his robes. Then he took a curious look around the dimly lit shop.

It wasn’t anything like he had seen around Diagon Alley before, as it was much more dusty and shady than any of the shops he had visited a year ago. The items that scattered the shop were not books or potions or anything of the like, but much odder. In a glass case sat something that looked suspiciously like a dried up, mummified hand, and a collection of glass eyes on one of the shelves had swirled to stare at Harry the moment he had stumbled out of the fireplace.

“Lovely,” Harry mumbled and reached a curious hand out to touch a grimacing mask on the wall. At his touch the grimace on the mask’s ugly, rough face deepened.

“Hoy! This ain’t no place for little kids!” came a gruff voice somewhere nearby and when Harry looked up an equally gruff man was staring at him from behind the front desk of the shop. It must have been the shopkeeper himself.

“Well, I’m not leaving,” Harry told the man and he had barely finished his sentence when the fireplace behind him roared back to life and the Dark Lord stepped through, looking just as neat and pressed as he had back at the Manor.

“How do you do that?” Harry wondered aloud, casting a disgruntled look at his own, mucked up robes.

Voldemort didn’t pay him any attention but cast his cold stare at the man behind the desk. “Borgin,” he greeted, and all colour disappeared from the shopkeeper’s face. He let out a strange strangled sound, a sound as if someone had stepped on a puffskein, and then the man wheezed out something incomprehensible and fearful that might have been a greeting.

Voldemort cast a disgusted look at the man before he looked at Harry. “Go buy your books. I will find you when I’m done,” he said curtly before he seemed to forget Harry’s very existence and made his way towards the front desk.

“Yeah, don’t mind me,” Harry huffed, “I’ll just go out there and get completely lost.”

Despite his protests, he made his way to the door and stepped outside into the narrow alley crammed between looming buildings on both sides. Harry glanced both ways before he stuck his head back into the shop with a sour look on his face.

“Which way am I supposed to go?” he quipped out.

Voldemort shot him an irritated look and just pointed one way before he turned back to Borgin and began to discuss something with the shopkeeper in low tones.

“Right,” Harry mumbled, rolling his eyes and stepping out again.

He got lost a couple of times in the maze of narrow alleys, and gained more suspicious and scrutinising stares than he would have liked. It wasn’t hard to guess that he was not in the most reputable part of the Wizarding district, so he kept his hand curled at his wand the entire time. He wasn’t afraid, per se, but still uncomfortable and out of place. Despite himself he sent a few nasty thoughts towards Voldemort for leaving him to fend for himself like this. The wizard could have at least done the decent thing and dropped Harry off somewhere he wouldn’t have had to worry about getting snatched and chopped into potion ingredients.

Then he finally stepped out from the shade of the buildings into the wider, buzzing Diagon Alley and exhaled a sigh of relief. It took him some more time to actually find Flourish and Blotts, and when he stepped inside he was astonished at the amount of people in there. Didn’t people have better things to do on a nice sunny summer day than to hang out at the bookshop? He was quick to find the reason for the busy business day when he spotted a wizard clad in golden robes at the back of the bookstore, smiling unnaturally widely and signing piles of books.

Harry tried to find Hermione in the crowd, but the masses of people made it impossible to get a good look around. He slinked to the side, between high bookshelves and pretended to study a book about the best magical pranks. There were way too many people for his liking and he was starting to feel really uncomfortable. He could only hope that Hermione would appear quickly and he could get out of here.

He made a quick purchase of his books and had them stuffed in a bag. He decided to go wait by the door, in hopes of catching his friend eventually.

“Harry!” a familiar delighted voice called somewhere nearby when Harry had barely made a move from the check-out line, and Harry turned with a grin already taking over his face. And just in time, because the next moment Hermione had her arms wrapped around his neck.

“I still need to breathe, Hermione,” Harry gasped when he was starting to feel lightheaded with the lack of oxygen. “But it’s nice to see you, too.”

Hermione let go of him and took a step back to take a good look at his face. She had barely started when a frown pulled her brows down into a displeased frown.

“Oh, you look _horrible_!” she exclaimed and fussed a bit, brushing hair off his forehead and straightening the collar of his shirt.

“Why, thank you,” Harry replied dryly and subtly backed out of reach from her hands. “That’s the best compliment I’ve heard in ages.”

Hermione scoffed amusedly, “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You look like you’ve barely slept!”

“Yeah, well. . .” Harry mumbled and shrugged. Technically, he _hadn’t_ slept much, because he had spent most of the night trying to hear the familiar steps of pacing, even if they hadn’t come all night. Keeping a watchful eye, or ear as the case may be, on Voldemort had seemed more important at the time. “It has been a busy summer,” Harry explained vaguely and shrugged a little.

Hermione made a strange expression then, something close to sly guilt crossing her face, “I know exactly what you mean. There’s lots of catching up to do.”

Harry waved a hand towards the buzzing Diagon Alley behind the shop windows and told her, “There’s an ice cream parlour just down there. I wouldn’t be opposed to trying it out.”

Hermione offered him a bright smile. “Perfect,” she said, before admitted, “I’ve missed you, you know.”

Something warmed oddly in Harry’s chest at that and he couldn’t quite help the smile that insisted on appearing onto his face. Perhaps this was how it felt like to have a real friend, Harry thought, as he replied with, “I’m really happy to see you, too.”

The ice cream parlour was rather busy thanks to the warm and sunny weather, but they managed to secure a table. After struggling for a moment to decide from the most imaginative selection of flavours, and after ordering inhumanly large portions of most of them, they settled down.

It took some small talk and a polite exchange of ‘how you’re doing’s, before it became apparent that there was something pressing on Hermione’s mind. She shifted restlessly in her seat and kept shooting Harry apprehensive looks when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

Poorly hiding a smile, Harry decided to have mercy on her after a minute or two, “There’s clearly something you’d like to talk about more than the weather.”

Hermione hummed a little, but didn’t try to deny it. “I was really glad when I got your letter, but to be entirely honest, it wasn’t just because I had missed your company,” she said and smiled a little.

“I think my feelings can take it,” Harry promised, “What is it then?”

“So, uh, I’m not sure how to start really,” Hermione began hesitantly and poked her raspberry ice cream with her spoon, stealing some time to organize her thoughts.

“The beginning is usually a good place,” Harry told her and offered a calming smile. It was obvious that for some reason Hermione was getting quite nervous, which in turn was making Harry a bit worried. What if she had found out about Voldemort? While being the Dark Lord’s protégé—or whatever he was—wasn’t something Harry was exactly ashamed of, he still knew that, if the truth came out, it would change, and most likely make worse, many things.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Usually, yes, but I think this time it’s best to start with facts,” she said before she drew a deep breath and basically blurted out, “Harry, you’re dead.”

Harry stared at her for a while and waited for the punch line. Nothing followed, so he blinked slowly before he stated carefully, “Um, I feel pretty alive.”

Hermione shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. Of course you are _alive_. I’ve never heard of dead people who can talk and consume worrying amounts of chocolate ice cream—“

“Hey, I happen to like chocolate!” Harry tried to protest, but she ignored him entirely.

“—but according to every official database you died over a decade ago,” she finished and stopped there, seemingly waiting for Harry to respond.

Harry mulled it over slowly, staring down at his ice cream and putting facts together slowly and methodically.

“Well, that kind of makes sense then,” he nodded finally.

An incredulous expression took over Hermione’s face, “Makes sense? Harry, I’m not sure if you actually heard what I said, but you are _dead_ as far as—“

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant” Harry hurried to interrupt before she could carry on. “I cast a bit of warding magic over the holiday, you see, and I’ve been expecting a letter from the Ministry because of the underage magic laws and all, but they never sent me one. It just makes sense now why they didn’t, since they think I’m dead apparently.”

Hermione’s expression turned curious. “Warding magic? Now, that’s inter—no! No, we are not talking about that right now. Remind me later,” she hurried to interrupt herself and cast a stern look at Harry. “Does this not alarm you?”

Harry shrugged. “Not really. It seems pretty handy so far,” he replied before he realised to ask something else. “But how and why do you know about this?”

It was Hermione’s turn to make a little shrug. “I was curious. You said you knew nothing about your family, so I wanted to do some research.” As she spoke she reached for her bag and dug out a folder of papers. She passed it over the table to Harry who reached for it curiously.

“What’s this then?” he asked as he flipped it open.

“Family trees, birth certificates, magical merits and occupations,” Hermione listed. “Essentially all the information I could find on your family.”

Harry blinked at her. “What?”

She seemed a bit flustered. “It has been a very boring summer, alright? Besides, the Potter family is apparently very old and quite respected, so there was lots of information to be found. On your father’s side, that is. Apparently your mother came from a muggle family, so the Ministry archives didn’t have much on her, but I managed to find bits and pieces about her, too.”

Harry flipped through the pages slowly. “I. . . Well, I can’t say that I don’t appreciate your efforts, but this wasn’t really necessary. They have been dead for a very long time.”

Hermione made a frustrated sound. “Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean you should forget about them entirely! They are your family, part of your history. I thought you might find it interesting.”

Harry did, in fact, find it quite fascinating, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Voldemort would appreciate it as much as Harry did.

Harry looked up to assure Hermione that he understood and appreciated her efforts, but the expression on her face caught the words in his throat before he could voice his thoughts. Hermione was staring at him with concern and her lips were pressed into a tight line of sadness.

“What?” Harry asked worriedly.

“Harry,” she began, but had to stop to clear her throat, “When you said your parents have been dead for a long time. . . You mean that you know when they died.”

“Well, yes,” Harry confirmed, not entirely sure what she was after.

“And you didn’t seem all that surprised that the Ministry thinks you’re dead, too,” Hermione added. She was staring intently at her quickly melting ice cream as if it had greatly offended her somehow. She looked up after a moment to ask, “You know about the attack then?”

Harry blinked slowly. “The attack?”

“Your parents didn’t just die!” Hermione pointed out, sounding agitated for some reason. “There was a Death Eater attack and both of them were killed. I read the articles and it wasn’t just some random attack either, they were after your family.”

“It wasn’t Death Ea—“ Harry started, but swallowed the rest of his sentence before he could finish. While Voldemort had told Harry that it was him who murdered the Potters, apparently the rest of the world didn’t know that. For whatever reason the attack was written off as a Death Eater attack and if that was the way the Dark Lord preferred it, then who was Harry to change it.

Hermione didn’t seem to pay attention to his wavering, but looked up at him and carried on, “You disappeared that night, after the attack.” She stopped long enough to draw a deep breath, almost as if to brace herself before she asked, “Where have you _been_?”

Harry stared back, blinked and cleared his throat uncertainly, before he wondered, “What do you mean ‘where have I been’? I’ve been. . . home? You know with. . .” Harry didn’t know how to finish so he raised a hand and waved it vaguely towards some direction behind him.

His display didn’t seem to settle Hermione any. She only appeared more concerned and something like pity seemed to twist her mouth downwards. She reached over the table and grasped his hand with strength that turned her knuckles white and made his bones grind together almost painfully.

“You have no idea how much I’d like to be wrong, but Harry, you have been missing for over ten years,” Hermione said. “You disappeared the night your parents were _murdered_ by Death Eaters. Did they. . . Were you with _them_? Have you been with your parents’ murderers this entire time?”

Yes, Harry supposed he could see how that was enough to make her worry. It did sound rather unusual when you put it like that.

“Hermione, I’m fine,” he reassured slowly, “I have been fine and I will be fine and I’m very much not dead.”

Instead of calming down, like Harry had hoped she would, she huffed an agitated breath and let go of his hand to push her curls off of her face irritably.

“That is not what I mean!” she exclaimed, “You have to. . . We have to. . . You can’t stay with them! There has to be someone who can _help you_. If someone knew, someone at the Ministry or even at Hogwarts or. . .”

“Dumbledore knows,” Harry tells her in a vain attempt to calm her down. Then he gave it a bit of thought and added, “And Snape, too.”

It did seem to work since she stopped in the middle of her rant and stared at Harry with a frown on her face. “What do you mean Dumbledore knows?” she asked and let her wildly gesturing hands return to the table.

“I mean that he knows where I am. Where I have been,” Harry explained, encouraged by the way she seemed to be calming down. “So, it’s perfectly fine! I’m not being held hostage or anything.”

“You mean to say that Dumbledore knows and hasn’t done anything,” she recapped and Harry was about to confirm, but her flat tone made him hesitate.

Instead he just offered a weak smile and began to stand up. He said cheerily, “Yep, um, we should go get the rest of our stuff. Did you have time to drop by at the apothecary? I’ll probably get a new cauldron, too, because of that stupid lab accident at the end of last year.”

“Harry, sit _down_ or I swear to Helga that I will hex you, even if the Ministry sends me a hundred letters for it!” Hermione said in a tone that left very little room for argument. Harry obediently sat back down, but carefully didn’t let his smile slip.

“Seriously, it’s all fine! You don’t have to worry about it,” Harry tried feebly.

“Well, obviously I do!” Hermione argued. “No one else seems to be worrying about it. If you won’t do something about this, then _I_ will. You are my friend, Harry, I can’t just stand here and watch…” She stopped to draw in a breath that turned out alarmingly weak and shaky. For one heart-stoppingly terrifying moment Harry was sure she’d cry.

“No, no, please, no, don’t,” he hurried to say and comfortingly patted her hands that still rested limply on the table.

Harry had no idea what to do or how to make it better. He had abandoned that track of ideas already and was only desperately wondering about how to escape the entire situation now. If he hadn’t been so fond of her, he would have bolted long ago, but even more pressingly, he had no clue what she might do if he did leave before he had sorted this out somehow.

“Hermione,” he started with the calmest and most comforting tone he could manage. “Do not worry about this, about me. Despite what you might think, it is _fine_. If you are so insistent about it, I already told you, Dumbledore knows and even he can’t do anything, so you’d better believe there’s absolutely no reason for you to worry. There’s nothing you could do. There’s nothing I’d want you to do. I’m perfectly fine right where I am.”

Harry was quite proud of himself for that little piece, but some of the pride dissipated when her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“You said it differently now,” Hermione pointed out slowly.

“Said what?” Harry wondered, quickly recalling what he had said but still finding nothing out of place.

“You said Dumbledore _can’t_ do anything,” she repeated. “Why can’t he? No, no, that doesn’t matter. Even if _he_ can’t, there has to be someone who could! We will just have to find them and—“

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted and this time he was louder and sharper. “Leave it.”

“I can’t! This is not something I can just _leave_ be as it is!”

Harry closed his eyes momentarily before he said slowly and clearly, trying his very best to make her understand, “You are my friend, too. I understand that you worry. But you _have to_ drop this. He will kill you, Hermione, if he thinks you are a bother.”

This seemed to startle Hermione out of her fervent state and she froze for a moment, almost startled.

“Who? Who will kill me?” she asked then, carefully. “Tell me, Harry.”

“I won’t,” Harry told her simply as he stood up to pick up his bag of recently purchased books. “I won’t tell you anything I think might end up killing you. And trust me, this _will_. I appreciate your concern, but I appreciate it even more when you’re alive.”

There was finality in his tone and some level of desperation that she must have read, because after a long moment of hesitation she nodded slowly. She stood up too, and seemed to waver for another moment before she stepped closer and pulled Harry into a bone-crushing hug.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit,” she mumbled before letting go of him reluctantly, “But I will not insist, if you are sure. Just remember that if you ever. . .need help or need to talk or anything, I’m here.” She shuffled awkwardly, but nodded with determination when she had finished speaking.

Harry offered her a smile. “I know. And thank you for it. But I’m honestly fine.”

She didn’t seem all that convinced, but to Harry’s great relief she seemed to be letting it go for now. Unfortunately, Harry wasn’t stupid enough to think he had heard the last of it, but at least he had somehow bought himself more time to figure out what to say.

Besides, he didn’t really even understand why she fussed so much. Yes, it might have been odd that he was thought dead, but surely she could see it for herself that he was as alright as he claimed. Perhaps he’d find the right words to assure her, once he had a moment to think about it. It would have made it easier if he could tell her about his life at the Manor and about how much he really cared for Voldemort and Nagini, but somehow he didn’t think that was what she wanted to hear right now.

Instead, Harry offered her a smile and was rewarded with one of hers in return.

“Come on then,” he prompted, “I really do need that cauldron. It wasn’t just a distraction technique.”

She huffed a weak laugh. “And what a rubbish distraction technique it was at that.”

Harry didn’t bother to hide the real smile that took over his face then. He was all too relieved that things seemed to be fine with them, despite the uncomfortable conversation they just had.

They made their way through a couple more shops, buying the things they needed for the upcoming year. While the silences between them were a bit uncomfortable, they both made a brave attempt at filling them with inane chatter about their summers and the future studies they’d be doing that year. Harry found himself slowly relaxing and realising that he had really missed this at the Manor, talking with someone who actually listened to what he had to say instead of always listening to someone who talked _at_ him.

And just when it was all going swimmingly and Harry had all but forgotten about Voldemort wandering somewhere loose, it all went to hell once again.

Hermione was explaining excitedly about the pretentious peacock of a wizard Harry had spotted in the Flourish and Blotts. Apparently he was a famous writer and more importantly their future Professor in Defence Against Dark Arts.

When Harry had unthinkingly scoffed, “I doubt that ponce has ever defended against any real Dark Arts,” he had accidentally sent Hermione off on one of her rants. She was in the middle of a detailed description of the grand adventures of one Gilderoy Lockhart when sudden yelling somewhere nearby interrupted her mid-sentence. They both looked up towards the noise curiously and saw half a dozen Aurors rushing towards them and calling out to people.

“Leave now! Get back home _right now_ ,” one of them yelled at the people gathered in the Alley. “There’s another attack.”

The exclamation was followed by a series of scared cries and loud _pop_ s of Disapparation as people began to hurry away in fear.

“What is—“ Hermione began to ask, but Harry barely heard. He whirled around, looking searchingly around, trying to catch the cause of the commotion. And there! He could hear distant terrified screams and something that sounded a lot like the roar of fire, somewhere south of where they were standing. Looking up, Harry caught the familiar greenish glow of Fiendfyre, drawing up against the sky.

Well, then.

He turned back towards Hermione and grasped her shoulders.

“You need to leave,” he told her firmly. “You need to leave _right now_. Head back towards the Leaky Cauldron, there should be people there and you should be safe with them.”

“But what—“

Harry shook her a bit. “Hermione! Remember that talk about things that could kill you? This is one of them. Do as I told you.”

Then he let go of her abruptly and turned towards the fire. He barely made it three steps when a hand took hold of his elbow and pulled him back.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, sounding half worried and half angry. “You’re coming with me! You heard them, it’s not safe here.”

Harry shook his head. “I can’t.”

Her expression was the very image of stubbornness, and frustration began to grow in Harry’s mind. He didn’t have _time_ for this. It was obvious that whatever had happened was caused by Voldemort and a bunch of Aurors were on their way there. Harry had to make sure that he was fine, that everything was alright.

“Don’t be _stupid_ ,” she bit out. “It’s dangerous! Even if you’re a self-proclaimed supporter of the Dark or something crazy like that, it doesn’t mean they can’t kill you, too!”

Harry drew in a breath, anger rising, but before he could voice his thoughts he remembered. He was already dead, wasn’t he? So, there was very little he _couldn’t_ do when it came down to it. No one could exactly persecute a dead school kid with crimes he might or might not have committed.

Harry’s conscience uttered a weak protest which he was quick to squash mercilessly. This was an emergency and she was nothing if not stubborn.

“Hermione, I have no words to tell you how sorry I am, but you leave me no choice,” he said and drew his wand from his robe pocket.

Hermione’s eyes widened and something sharp and painful cut at Harry’s chest when he saw the startled fear there, but he didn’t hesitate when he cast the spell. It wasn’t like he’d actually _harm_ her.

“ _Imperio_.”

He had never done it before. He had never needed to do it before. He had never thought that he _could_ , never believed that he’d have the determination and the strength to command in such a way. But necessity and urgency are good teachers. He cast it carefully and precisely.

Her eyes went unfocused and her expression oddly distant, which made Harry believe that it had worked, so he pocketed his wand. He stared at her vacant face for a heartbeat, feeling a strange terror rising in him. _He had done this_. He remembered what it was like, to be ensnared in the Imperius Curse, and he had still done this almost without hesitation.

Harry swallowed thickly.

“You need to leave the Alley, Hermione, quickly,” he told her as calmly as he could manage. “Go home, go straight home. Everything is fine, I promise. I’ll see you when school starts. I am sorry.”

He turned on his heels again and began to walk, but he turned a bit further down to look behind. He watched her back as Hermione hurried towards the opposite direction, towards safety, and something like regret tried to claw itself out of him. He pushed it down firmly.

Harry made his way quickly towards the raging Fiendfyre, skipped past buildings and dodged into alleyways to avoid the rushing people and watchful eyes. It took him a few minutes, but the dead bodies of Aurors that littered the street were a good indication of when he was getting close.

Of course he found Voldemort there, engaged in a lazy duel with another Auror. Harry skidded to a halt nearby, just when the Dark Lord finished the poor wizard with a quick and effortless Killing Curse. Harry must have uttered some kind of noise, because then Voldemort was swirling towards him and the spell was sent flying before the man had clearly given it even a conscious thought. Luckily, Harry was prepared and ducked out of the way before damage could occur. He scraped his knees on the harsh cobblestones, but ignored it as he jumped back onto his feet and turned to raise an eyebrow at Voldemort.

“And here I was, coming to check on you,” Harry said and hoisted his book bag higher on his shoulder.

“Of course it would be you,” Voldemort crumbled, but despite the words he sounded oddly calm and satisfied, considering the situation. He turned to look at the nearby buildings that were being consumed by the green, magical fire. Harry followed his gaze and frowned at the complete destruction before he cast a look around at the dead Aurors. There was blood splattered around the cobbled alley and the nearby walls, which suggested that even though the last Auror had had a clean death, the others were not so lucky.

“This must be why you don’t come here often,” Harry joked weakly and stumbled across the distance that still separated them. He stopped next to Voldemort and felt the unnatural heat of Fiendfyre scorch through his clothes even this far away. “I hope you at least got what you came here for,” Harry then said and looked up curiously at Voldemort.

“It wasn’t her,” the man told him simply and swirled his yew wand lazily through his fingers as he cast a look around at his own handiwork.

“Who wasn’t what?” Harry asked dumbly, as he followed the look before he quickly looked away again. Despite everything, there was something about the mindless death and the utter destruction that made Harry’s stomach churn.

“Zabini. It wasn’t her,” the Dark Lord explained curtly.

Harry blinked, suddenly realising what they were talking about. “Oh,” he mumbled, honestly quite surprised by the new information. “Did you get a name then?”

A slow dangerous smile stretched across Voldemort’s face, clear satisfaction in it. “I did,” he admitted and sounded like all the good things in the world had just been handed to him.

Harry raised an arm to protect his face against the intense heat of the Fiendfyre before he turned to look at Voldemort and asked curiously, “Who was it?”

“Never heard of her before,” Voldemort shrugged, and seemed oddly nonchalant about it. Although, Harry had to admit, it wasn’t probably all that unusual to have unexpected enemies popping up left and right when you were a Dark Lord.

“Well, at least this is a start,” Harry commented, took a look around at the crumbled buildings, shattered stone and wood, and the miserable sight that was a notable length of Diagon Alley. “Pity about the Alley, though. Thanks for at least waiting until I was done with buying my school stuff.”

“Hmm,” Voldemort responded vaguely, but something on his face seemed odd and out of place.

Harry took one guess, “You completely forgot I was even here, didn’t you?”

Voldemort shot him a look from the corner of his eye and assured, “I most definitely did not.”

Harry didn’t believe it. “And if one of these damn houses had collapsed on _me,_ then what would have you done?”

“Gone home and carried on as per usual,” Voldemort shot back, turned on his heel and took firm hold of Harry’s shoulder.

“And then who would have been there to make you tea when—“ Harry started, but the rest of his sentence was swallowed as the Side-Along Apparation tore him away from Diagon Alley and the chaos left behind.


End file.
